Pulse: The Future
by SatiricalPhilosophy
Summary: Having died at the Battle of Badon Hill, Lancelot was sure that that had been it, that he was gone forever, until he woke up in a strange house, with a strange woman, and with a pulse some years into the future. It's a pretty basic summary. RR...
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all original characters presented throughout the duration of the story._

_Summary- When a person dies, that's it, they're dead. At least, that's what Lancelot always thought; however it seems Fate had other ideas. Having died at the Battle of Badon Hill, Lancelot was sure that that had been it, that he was gone forever, until he woke up in a strange house, with a strange woman, and with a pulse some years into the future. (Pretty basic summary. There is more to it, just to inform readers.)_

**Pulse: The Future **

**Prologue**

Dying pulse…

Heavy darkness…

Chilling coldness…

Blinding pain…

Squeezing suffocation….

Worshipped oxygen…

Painful awareness…

Blinding light…

Beating pulse…

Lancelot's eyes opened; his body rose as he heaved air into his desperate lungs. Pain was a prominent feeling coursing throughout his body. His eyelids, so incredibly heavy, closed on their own accord. He had no strength to try and keep them open or fight the overpowering darkness that beckoned him into its embrace. He resigned himself and allowed himself to succumb placidly to unconsciousness where he knew peace could be found, something he most desired. On that teetering edge before one fully gives way to oblivion, however, a melodious voice reached his ears, breaking through the deafening silence that had once dominated. He felt his hair be smoothed away from his forehead; his eyes flickered open briefly. However, in that brief flicker, the bluest eyes he had ever seen filled his gaze.

He fell slave to oblivion, blue eyes imprinted firmly on his memory.

* * *

_A/N- My first KA fic. Excuse me if I get any characterization wrong; this is my first ever _attempt_ at ever writing a KA fic. Yes, yes excuses, excuses. I hate them as well. Constructive criticism is very much welcomed. Anyways… so this was extremely short, however, it's the prologue. Also, I know in King Arthur that the language they spoke/were portraying wasn't English (wasn't it Latin?), however, for the sake of confusion on readers part I'm just going to have everyone speak/know English, unless of course, I change my mind. If you have any questions feel free to ask, I'm more then willing to answer. The same goes for any suggestions… _

_SatiricalPhilosophy _


	2. Chapter One

_Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic. _

**Pulse: The Future**

**Chapter One **

_Darkness was everywhere, shrouding him from any and all light… if there had even ever been light. Noises- or were they voices- were muffled. Distant and far off, just breaking the deafening silence that surrounded him. It was all enough to make even the strongest of men go mad, enough to bring about insanity in the sanest of men. Nothing could touch him. He was suspended in some warped oblivion that he was beginning to loathe. Suspended like some inanimate _doll_, like some kind of puppet that had a master. That had a master and obeyed when the strings were pulled. He was boxed in. The darkness, the death like stillness, the grave silence- it all oppressed him. _

_He was forced to squint when a sudden burst of magnificent blue broke through the darkness. So bright, so brilliant… it beckoned him to it. Like a moth to a flame, he was summoned to that bright, intense blue sphere… and he was too weak to fight, too powerless to resist. Did he even want to fight, though? The closer he drew, the clearer the noises became. Words. He knew that they were words that were being spoken. Spoken in the most harmonious voice, he had ever heard. Not even Vanora and her talented voice could compare to this. It was so rich, so sweet… so pure. And pureness was something that he wasn't all that accustomed to. Too used to violence, and the whores that accompanied him, that went all too willingly to his bed with him. He was drawn to this pureness like a drunk to his alcohol. _

_He reached out a hand. Almost there. So very, very close. If only… The tips of his fingers touched that shimmering blue surface and- _

Lancelot jerked awake, sitting straight up in the bed he laid in with his dark eyes impossibly wide. His breath came in painful heaves, as if he was a suffocating man unable to get enough oxygen. His heart pounded erratically in his chest as if it was fighting to be released, or as if he had ran a very long time… or perhaps had a nightmare… Sweat dampened his curly locks and covered his body in a fine sheen, plastering his hair unflatteringly to his forehead, and his clothes to his flesh. His clothes… he wore only strange pants that were drawn by a string around his waist, and that were beige with diamond shaped designs strategically patterned; his chest was completely bare. It was then that he took in his surrounding environment.

It wasn't a large room that he occupied, but moderately sized with walls that were painted a nice homey yellow; it wasn't too bright, but it wasn't dull either. A cherry wood dresser of drawers with a mirror sat against the opposite wall; matching cherry wood bedside tables were positioned on either side of the bed; a yellow lamp with a white shade sat on top of them. A small sofa covered in a white and yellow afghan sat angled in the corner along the wall where the door (the fact that it was opened and led into a hallway didn't escape his attention) was located; a small coffee table was placed in front of it. The window (there was only one) on the wall horizontally across from him was large, and took up a good portion of the wall. Warm sunrays shone through the partially opened window and warmed his chilled body; the curtains that blew from the slight breeze were white with yellow daises embroidered on them, and they _oddly_ enough matched the covers and sheets on the bed. Abstract and other framed paintings that really didn't make much sense to him, hung fashionable and strategically on the walls.

Alarm and keen alertness filled him. Where was he? He had never in his life seen this room, or anything in it. It mystified him, perplexed him to great extremities. How had he come to be here, wherever _here_ was? His brow furrowed; the last thing he remembered, though his mind was greatly impeded with what felt like thick, obscuring fog, was fighting. Yes, a battle… at Badon Hill. He and the other knights had fought against the Saxons, and he had saved Guinevere, but in process had-

Lancelot's eyes widened to enormous size. He had died. He had actually died. The Saxon, Cynric, had shot him with an arrow. Subconsciously his hand traveled up and touched his chest over the exact spot where the arrow had went in, and he felt… he felt nothing. Lancelot quickly looked down at his scared covered chest, and found… nothing. No bloodied or gaping wound, no arrow protruding out of his chest, no pain, not even a bandaged… only a small, ragged pinkish circle. However, it was hardly noticeable. He was now more confounded then ever before. Just what the hell was going on? Where was he? What tricks was it that was being played upon him? Where was Arthur, or any of the other Knights? In a hurried motion, Lancelot threw off his covers and sprang up out of the bed-

-Only to be met by a nauseating wave of vertigo that sent him reeling, and clutching at the bed and side table to keep himself from falling down. He gritted his teeth, regained his equilibrium, and carefully let go of his support, all the while sweeping his eyes over the room hoping to spot his swords or his clothes. His search proved fruitless, leaving him in an unpleasant state of irritability. Never mind, though, he had to find Arthur. It was the only logical plan he had, for who else would know what was happening? Surly Arthur did. Plan firmly embedded mentally, Lancelot purposely made his way to the open door, careful, however, of his steps. He didn't want to have another dizzy spell; there wasn't any furniture for him to grab to keep him from falling.

The hallway was painted a nice beige color with two doors (three counting his own) on the left side, and one on the right; a staircase was located at the other end, along with a window. The floor, much like the stairs, was hardwood. A hallway table sat against the wall between the two doors closest to the stairway, a picture setting on top of it with large candles on either side of it. Other pictures, not the odd ones that were in his room, but actual pictures of people framed the walls. All of them were strangers to him; he didn't recognize a single one of them. He had never seen any if them in any of his thirty years of existence. And in all of them, the people were dressed in odd clothing; the women in most of them wore pants- were they Woads? He quickly dismissed that notion. They looked nothing like Woads. In some them, in the background there were large… machines that he had never seen before.

He was once again faced with the question of where exactly was he.

A sudden noise followed closely by a feminine voice pulled him out of his thoughtful observation. He turned and warily walked closer to the stairs to slowly descend them; the noise and voice was coming from somewhere downstairs, and he was determined to find them. As he walked silently down the steps, using every bit of stealth that he had gained over his fifteen years of servitude to Rome, the voice became closer, more distinct, and it became even more apparent to him that he did not know to whom the voice belonged. That only fueled his suspicion, and as he reached the very bottom of the steps he listened carefully as to where the voice was coming from, completely ignoring the door a few feet in front of him. Did it come from the large room to the right, from the left that led into another room- the kitchen perhaps- or down the hallway that went straight passed the stairs? Finally, after listening and concentrating closely, Lancelot decided on the left; carefully and cautiously he eased around the corner.

His assumption that the doorway led to the kitchen had been correct. It was a large room with gleaming hardwood floors and a cherry wood isle- it matched the cherry wood cabinets- located in the middle of it with a rack above it brimming with pans, bowls, and other kitchen utensils. One side was taken up by shelves, and on the other side, as far as Lancelot could tell; it was decked with shelves full of kitchen supplies and other things. Behind the isle, on the side with the shelves was a stove/oven situated against the wall, and a large metal, shiny chrome refrigerator that seemed puzzled Lancelot. The kitchen sink lined the wall beside the stove/oven; the counters had odd appliances that Lancelot had never seen before. At the other side of the room, behind the side of the isle with the chairs, was a raised stage with a rectangular table sitting in the middle of it; four straight back wooden chairs sat around it. Behind it, and the source of most of the light in the kitchen, was a curved wall of windows that overlooked an expanse of grassy, well-kept yard with a line of trees that was the edge of the forest some yards away.

Lancelot, however, paid little attention to the windows or the door that was directly in front of him. Instead he looked at the counter behind the isle at the short woman standing there, talking happily into some black and silver object that she held against the side of her face; she was completely oblivious to his presence. He observed her quietly, thoroughly and thoughtfully. She wore some sleeveless tunic made of some kind of white flimsy fabric, and pants made of some odd blue material that he never seen before. She was shoeless, and short. _Very short_, he added in his mind. Her hair was a light blonde and her skin healthily pale. Lancelot knew that, without a doubt, he had positively no clue as to who the woman was. He had never seen her before, of that he was sure.

"I'm sure Megan will be in soon. She only went out to bring the dogs back in." The woman paused, still unaware to his being there. He couldn't help but to think that if he had had the intention to kill her, she would have already been dead. The woman suddenly laughed. "Yeah, yeah flattery's not going to get you anywhere, Tom."

And as the women turned her head slightly, Lancelot noticed her glance at him from the corner of her eye before glancing away only to hurriedly glance back, turning around completely to face him. And it was then that Lancelot became aware of her rather large, protruding stomach; she was pregnant. Lancelot dismissed her as an immediate threat, but still remained chary of her. She regarded with cautious eyes silently; Lancelot could hear a voice coming from the odd device she still held against her ear asking if she was all right, and what was wrong.

"Tom, I'll call you back," she said into the contraption. Lancelot couldn't help but wonder what it was. "Yes, Tom, I'll make sure that Megan gets your message." Lancelot watched the woman take the device away from her ear and click something on it before setting it on the counter. She never once looked away from him.

"You're awake," she said, stating the obvious. "How are you feeling?"

Lancelot ignored her question, though, and demanded, "Where am I? How did I come about being here? Who are you? Where is Arthur?"

The blonde woman frowned slightly. "You're safe. Megan found you outside in the backyard; you were unconscious. This is her house. We brought you back here, and I treated you."

He was found in their backyard? Unconscious? In the backyard? How did he get there? Where was Arthur, or any of the other Knights for that matter? Who was Megan? Who was this woman? He found himself asking most of those questions out loud before he could really think about it.

"I'm Felicia Stratford, Megan's my sister," she explained slowly, as if measuring her words, being careful of what she said. "I'm not sure who this Arthur is that you keep referring to, and as for how you got here…"

The woman trailed off, and Lancelot, in his state of irritability, snapped, "Well?

"_Well_, we were actually hoping _you_ tell _us _that," a voice from behind him stated suddenly.

Lancelot spun his head around, wished he hadn't because of how the thumping in his head intensified a second later, and looked at the newcomer that had some how opened the side door of the kitchen, and entered without him noticing. He looked at the young woman that stood with a small dog tucked under one of her thin arms, and a bigger dog of some dark golden color standing by her leg. And though her eyes weren't as blue, but more gray, or her voice as melodious, something in Lancelot instinctively knew who the woman was, and that something was being tugged at, pulled on like a puppet master would pull on the strings to his puppet… and he didn't understand it all.

"I'm Megan," she introduced herself. "What's your name? That seems like a good place to start."

Lancelot regarded her silently for a long moment before replying simply, "Lancelot."

Lancelot watched as Megan's eyebrows rose, her lips quirk upwards, and her eyes sparkle in sudden amusement. Megan glanced at her sister, before looking back toward Lancelot. He watched as she bit her lip, and seemed to struggle to gain control of herself before smiling brightly; the sparkle was still very prominent in her eyes, turning them, now, bluer in color. He couldn't help but wonder what the lady found to be so thoroughly amusing, but found himself liking her eyes more when she was happy and they were blue instead of when they were gray-blue. He found himself unable to keep from frowning yet once again.

"Well… Lancelot… why don't you sit down. You had a rather nasty bump on your head, and this is the first time since I've found you since you've been out of bed, and I really don't want you to um… you know… fall down…" Megan trailed off, biting her bottom lip, and turned to shut the door and set the small dog on the floor. When she did, the dog immediately walked over to Lancelot and started to sniff him without a hint of shyness.

Lancelot watched the little dog as it sniffed him and pawed at his leg. He looked up as Megan spoke; saw her walking toward the raised platform where the table was. The larger dog had walked over to the table with her and was now lying under it, watching Lancelot and the others. "Don't mind Ruddy. He won't bite, just sniff you a bit until he's satisfied."

Lancelot didn't respond, merely sidestepped the small dog and walked over to the table where Megan was sitting at, and sat down across from her slowly. Felicia joined them seconds later; she sat down beside of Megan, and picked up the little dog that Megan had previously dubbed Ruddy, placing him on her lap and scratching the dark-eyed little dog behind his floppy ears. Uncomfortable silence stretched out between the three occupants of the table, none of them really sure of what to say to the other. Lancelot was anxious too find out all that he could, but didn't break the silence, instead watching the women (manly Megan for he seemed unable to keep from looking at her for long), and observing their posture and composure.

Tense; they were both tense. Lancelot could easily tell it by the way both of their small, narrow shoulders were held stiffly, or by the way they kept fidgeting in their seats, shooting glances at each other and then at him. Lancelot himself was tense, had been sense he had woken to find himself in this strange abode with a woman he innately felt connected to for some reason he couldn't even justify to himself, and a pregnant woman that had apparently helped and nursed him back to health.

"You said earlier that you "treated" me. I assume you are a healer?" Lancelot questioned, breaking the heavy silence that hung between him and the two women.

Felicia looked at Lancelot slightly startled; no doubt she hadn't been expecting him to speak. She frowned ever so slightly. "Healer? I'm an RN."

Now it was Lancelot's turn to frown. "RN?"

"Registered Nurse." But upon still seeing Lancelot's confusion, she elaborated, "Someone that helps other people get better when they're sick."

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "A healer."

Felicia frowned. Before she could respond, though, Megan was already speaking. "Yeah, she's a healer. Lancelot, how did-"

"Mommy."

Felicia and Megan turned in their seats and looked at the little boy that had just entered the room, Lancelot also looked at him. The child was small, and looked no older then eight, nine at the very most. He had light brown hair with tints of red through it, pale skin that, unlike Felicia's and Megan's, looked sickly, and blue-green eyes that looked grave and far too serious for such a small child. He was dressed in the oddest clothes that Lancelot had ever laid eyes on; they looked like some kind of sleeping garb, white with odd pictures that had the weirdest looking wheels that Lancelot had never seen before. His small feet were bare.

"Who're you?"

The child looked directly at Lancelot, meeting Lancelot's dark molasses colored eyes with his light ones. Lancelot had already dismissed the small child as a threat, but still thought the little boy odd with his intense stare and oh-so-serious face, and flat deadpanned tone. Never had he come across or met a child quite like the boy standing before him. Oh he had seen plenty of despair and hopelessness, but that wasn't what… unnerved him about the child. The child was just too serious, with eyes that showed nothing of his inner feelings or thoughts. The child was stoic enough, he couldn't help but to think, that he might even be able to beat Tristan.

"Honey! What are you doing out of bed?" Felicia exclaimed, putting the small dog she had been holding down quickly before hurriedly going to the little boy that still looked at Lancelot emotionless. Lancelot instantly knew that Felicia was the child's mother, and not Megan. He wasn't sure why, but he felt a small amount of pleasure come with that knowledge. He really had to find Arthur and figure out what was happening.

"Are you the sick man Megan found?" the child asked with his same bland tone, eyes blank and intense at the same time, drilling into Lancelot's.

"Aiden, this is Lancelot," Megan said, smiling softly at the little boy she had called Aiden. "Lancelot, Aiden."

"You have a weird name. Did they name you after Sir Lancelot from the Arthurian Legend?" Aiden asked, causing Lancelot to raise an eyebrow inquiringly before watching as Felicia sighed and gave Megan a tired look. Megan smiled sympathetically.

"Come on, Aiden. Let's get you to bed."

And soon enough it was only Lancelot and Megan in the room. Megan turned back around in her chair and looked at Lancelot, smiling tensely. Pushing a piece of dark hair out of her face, Megan sighed and opened her mouth to speak. "So are you hungry? You must be. You've been sleeping for almost two whole weeks."

Megan quickly got up out her chair, and bustled over to the other side of the isle; Lancelot slowly followed her. She barely glanced at him as she busied herself in the refrigerator and cabinets, simply gesturing to him to take a seat at the kitchen isle. Lancelot did, watching her carefully.

"What did the child mean?"

Megan glanced back at him. "What'd you mean?" she asked, brow furrowing slightly.

"He asked me if I was named after Sir Lancelot from the Arthurian Legend. What did he mean?"

Megan frowned and turned to look at him fully and said, "Exactly what he said I suppose." She paused, bit her bottom lip, and asked with curious eyes, "Lancelot, how _did_ you come to be in my backyard? What happened?"

"I… know not exactly. I was actually going to ask you the same question. If you would only be so kind, My Lady, as to tell me where Arthur is, I am sure we could get this figured out quickly."

"Arthur? You kept saying his name, plus others, in your sleep. Who is he?"

Lancelot frowned. "Arthur Castus. He is my Commanding Officer."

Megan blinked and slowly said, "Commanding Officer? Arthur Castus?"

"He is the Commanding Officer of all the Knights."

Megan raised an eyebrow. "Knights?"

"Sarmatian Knights," Lancelot clarified, beginning to grow impatient.

Megan licked her lips. "Sarmatian Knights?"

"Of Hadrian's Wall, woman. What other Sarmatian Knights led by Artorious Castus do you know of?"

Megan worried her bottom lip, looking at Lancelot with a cross between a look that said she thought he was well on his way to insanity, confusion, and caution. "Lancelot, um… what year do you think you think this is?"

Her question threw the Knight off, but he answered anyways, "467 AD."

Megan's eyebrows rose swiftly. She did little else but stare at Lancelot in surprise, with a hint of worry. Worry for his sake? Or did she worry for her own? It was something Lancelot found himself pondering. "Lancelot, it's March… 2006."

And just like that, a weight dropped in Lancelot's stomach. His eyes opened wide showing his shock and disbelief. It couldn't be. Could it? Lancelot couldn't help but find himself believing the short woman's words.

Well damn…

* * *

_A/N- Okay, despite the extreme urge to vomit and my being busy with exams, I did manage to finish this chapter. It would have been out sooner, but I had a project/exam to complete, my power went out (I have the suckiest power ever, which is actually why I didn't proofread this chapter as well), and more exams to study for. So that has kept me rather busy, plus I feel rather ill at the moment. But here it is! And I got it out on the weekend. I am so proud of myself. Slow start, but its necessary. Also, I'm not sure if I got Lancelot correct. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks for all the reviews for the previous chapter. They really help to want to make me update faster. Okay I've babbled enough. Thanks again. Any questions or suggestions are welcomed. _

_SatiricalPhilosophy_


	3. Chapter Two

_Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to __Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic._

Pulse: The Future

Chapter Two

Megan sighed tiredly, slid into one of the chairs at her kitchen table and rested her chin in her palm. She had finally managed to get Lancelot calmed down and into the living room, introducing him to the marvelous invention called television. Introduced him to it, that is, if what he had claimed with such zest was true, which Megan was having a hard time believing. By all things rational and logical, it just was _not_ possible. People couldn't time travel; people _didn't_ time travel. And surely even if they could, Sir Lancelot from Arthurian Legend… she snorted rather unladylike. That was just what it was, _legend_. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table didn't actually exist. There wasn't any such thing as Excalibur, or Merlin. It was just poppycock, complete and utter ludicrous from Lancelot's (was that even his real name?) injury.

But Felicia, hell even Doc. Barnes, had told her that Lancelot didn't seem to have a concussion or any other serious damage. In fact, the only thing they found in their medical examination when Megan had found him and had called Felicia and Doc. Barnes to examine him was a small, but not serious bump on his head and a small red place on his chest—a scar perhaps. However, that had been it. It had even mystified her sister and the good doctor when Lancelot had apparently slipped in a "comatose" state; there hadn't been anything wrong with him health wise—he had been as healthy as a horse.

Megan sighed, and rubbed at her temple with her free hand. _Just what in the holy blazes was going on?_ She didn't know, was determined to find out, though. Maybe she could have Felicia and Doc. Barnes check his head. Drive him all the way to the city of Danaver, a two hour drive out of town, to see a shrink if she had to.

She sighed again; it was times like these that she wished the little town Halls weren't so… well, little. If she were still living in Burlington, it wouldn't be a problem. Hell, she could have left Lancelot off at the hospital and let them take care of him, only visiting him to make sure he was okay. But, _no_. Halls only had a single doctor's office, with a single doctor and two nurses (well, one nurse now that Felicia was on maternity leave), and no place really to keep Lancelot since he wasn't critically ill. So, of course, that left him in her charge, and left him in her house, not that she minded. She wasn't the kind of person to kick someone out in the cold when they needed a place to stay; her mother had taught her better than that. And while it wasn't the safest thing to do, taking a strange man in when she didn't even know a single thing about him, she always told herself that Henry Phillips, her closest neighbor, was only about a mile away if she needed him. Thinking about it now, however, Megan couldn't help but realize with an emotion akin to astonishment that a mile wasn't actually that close, and that by the time Henry _did_ arrive at her house, Lancelot could have already killed her, Felicia, and Aiden. She reassured herself, though, that if Lancelot had wanted to kill them, he would have done so by now.

She traced the rim of her round latte mug with her index finger. But he had seemed so adamant about it. Seemed to actually believe that he was a knight from the year 467 AD. Seemed to actually think himself Sir Lancelot under the command of King Arthur, or as he called him, Arthur Castus. And what was with the getup he had been dressed in when she had first found him nearly two weeks ago: leather pants, leather tunic, armor, and swords?

Megan sighed exasperatedly. She just didn't know what to believe. The intrinsic part of her that was ruled by feelings alone, felt like he was telling the truth. Her other half, the logical side of her that went by facts and often dominated over her other half, just couldn't believe it. It was completely unfathomable! A Knight from the Round Table being zoomed thousands and thousands of years into the future? And into her backyard no less? It was complete lunacy!

"Don't think too hard, Megan. You might hurt yourself."

Megan snorted, glanced at her sister when she sat down across from her. "He thinks he's from the Dark Ages, Fel," Megan said, not even bothering to clarify whom the "he" was. She didn't have to; Felicia would know. Call it ESP or something.

Felicia quirked an eyebrow, leaned back in her chair, and placed her hands on her protruded stomach. "The Dark Ages?"

Megan brought her mug up to her small mouth and took a sip. "Yup," she replied, setting the mug back down.

A frown creased Felicia's face. Megan wondered what she was thinking. No doubt about the possible threat he could be posing; that, though, had been running amok in her sister's mind since the very first day Megan had told her he would be staying with them. That way he would have a nurse at all times, and the town's folk didn't find out about him just yet. Halls was a small town where everyone knew each other, and though they were generally friendly people, they tended to be suspicious of newcomers. It had taken nearly a year before they had almost completely warmed up to Megan, and they were still warming up to her sister. Megan could only imagine how the people of Halls would react if they found out about Lancelot and the details, or _lack_ of details, of how he had arrived in the friendly little town of Halls.

She understood Felicia's concerns, though. After all, Felicia had Aiden and the little ones on the way to think of and protect. It was only natural for her to be suspicious, whereas Megan was trusting. _Too_ trusting according to Felicia; Felicia had gone as far as calling her naïve with her trusting, and rather gullible nature. Megan didn't think she was naïve or too trusting, just a nice person.

"Maybe, then-"

"I should call Doc. Barnes to come and check his head?" Megan asked, interrupting the blonde. "Already thought about that, _and_ taking him all the way to Danaver to see a shrink."

Felicia raised her eyebrows expectantly. When Megan didn't say anymore, however, she asked, "Well?"

Megan blinked. "Well what?"

"Are you going to?"

Megan shrugged, heaved a giant sigh. "Fel, he seems so sincere about it. You should have been in here. He went like friggin' ballistic, didn't believe me at all! Kept going on and on that it was all some trick or something."

"I heard from upstairs," Felicia stated. "But come on, Meg, you can't actually _believe_ him. Traveling through time? It was nice in stories and make-believe when we were children, but this is real life. It's insane!"

Megan switched positions, leaning back in her chair and drawing one leg up, bending it at the knee. An expression akin to troubled and confused flittered across her face. She knew that it was plenty insane. Had been debating, wrestling over that little fact for the better part of an hour, and still didn't know what she believed. And it confused her that she didn't. In normal circumstances, she would have already written it off as crazy talk. Because it was like Felicia said: time traveling? Completely insane. Except that wasn't the case, not this time.

And why was that?

She wasn't even sure herself. It seemed her logical side and not-so-logical side were dueling it out, with her not-so-logical side slowly coming out as the victor. But it was absolutely implausible! Surly no one in their right mind would believe such farfetched tales spun by an obvious crazy man. Megan furrowed her brow. And yet it seemed as if she was slowly starting to believe him, something within her innately knowing that he was telling the truth. That by some wild chance that couldn't be reasoned or justified by logical and factual information, Sir Lancelot, legendary Knight of the Round Table, had indeed found his way into her backyard some thousands of years into the future.

Megan snorted; maybe she should go get her head checked out as well.

"I don't know what I believe, Fel." Megan ran a hand through her dark tresses, stared intently at the table, reached out a hand to pick at the edge with her short nail.

She heard Felicia's defeated sigh, didn't look up when she spoke. "Just be careful, Megan."

"Aren't I always?" Megan teased playfully.

Felicia rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Go check on your knight then."

Megan snorted, but got up from her seat, turned, and started to walk to the hallway entrance. Stopped when she heard Felicia's voice say, "And for Christ sakes, Meggy, feed the man. You're a horrible hostess." And in return, Megan narrowed her eyes and mock glared at Felicia, sticking her tongue out and resembling a child instead of the twenty-five year old woman she was. Felicia only reciprocated the action.

**-8-8-8-**

Megan entered her large living room carrying a plate full of sandwiches; saw Lancelot sitting on her blue and white-checkered sofa, outlined by the light streaming in through the two large windows behind him. She could tell just by looking at him that he wasn't watching the television across the room in front of him. His eyes gave him away, so distant and thoughtful. She wondered what he was thinking about. No doubt he was as confused as she was, if not more. No, she was guaranteeing he was even more confused than she was. Not that it mattered, she supposed. They would either figure the whole mess out, or they wouldn't. With that note, Megan crossed the room, breaking Lancelot from his trance when she walked in front of his line of vision, coming around to sit on the other side on the sofa, set the plate of sandwiches on the light oak coffee table in front of the couch.

She smiled tensely at Lancelot, unsure of what to say. What did one say anyways to a person that thought himself to be a knight with such vehemence that it was startling? She didn't know, and shifted uncomfortably, feeling awkward under Lancelot's intense gaze. Did he have to look at _her_ like that? Couldn't he look at or study the room with that intensity? No, apparently he couldn't. She wondered what thoughts were churning inside his head, swimming behind his carefully guarded dark eyes? Megan couldn't tell, and she wasn't entirely sure what to expect from the man across from her. Was he really just some crazy lunatic that she had unwittingly let into her house because she was just too nice of a person to leave another when they were in need of assistance or aid? She didn't know, but he didn't… feel… was that the right word she was searching for? He just didn't feel like he was crazy, or had any ill will toward her or her family…

If Felicia could hear her thoughts, Megan knew her sister would be chastening her for her nature, saying you never knew what a person was capable of until you truly knew them. Which, as Felicia always reminded her, you never really know a person, therefore should never put complete trust in them, because if you do, then you're bound to get hurt someway, somehow. Megan bit the inside of her jaw, looked around as if she was nervously on her first date again, and crossed her ankles together. Finally, however, unable to take the tense silence and Lancelot's intense look that felt as if it was boring holes straight through her, she spoke.

"Are you hungry? I made some sandwiches, promise I didn't poison them," she said, winced inwardly at her lame attempt of a joke.

Apparently Lancelot didn't find her funny either, saying, "You don't believe that what I say is the truth."

Megan looked at him, sighed. She had hopped they wouldn't be having this conversation until a little later. A headache was already forming thanks for her over thinking the matter before entering her periwinkle painted living room only minutes ago. As she had established before, she wasn't sure what she believed, but it was time she found out just what exactly was happening, and who exactly this man was. It was the moment of truth, and she couldn't stop the flutter of her stomach.

"Lancelot," began Megan, "you said you were from Britain… and the year 467 AD. But, I mean, come on… _The Knights of the Round Table_, King _Arthur_… I mean, as great as they are, they're just legends… You can't honestly _believe _that you're _actually_ Sir Lancelot from the Arthurian Legend."

Lancelot frowned. "I do not know anything about your _legend_, but I assure you that I am quite real, and that my name _is_ Lancelot, and that I am a knight under the command of Arthur Castus."

Megan ran a hand through her hair. She could already tell that this wasn't going to be easy. Could already tell by the little glint in Lancelot's dark eyes that he wasn't going to make this easy on her, was going to be stubborn until she either lost her patience with him or believed him. And at that moment, Megan wasn't exactly positive which one would come first: her believing his words to be truth, or her usually long patience being worn thin and her leaving to cool off. Usually it was Felicia that would lose her cool and that was quick to anger, but Megan had had a trying day already with her students. Thus, resulting in her possibly short attitude with people.

"Fine, let's say you are from the year 467 AD, and that you are Sir Lancelot from King Arthur. Why are here?"

A frown creased Lancelot's forehead. Megan watched him carefully, saw confusion in his eyes and realized that he was just as clueless as she was in the matter. _Great, just _great. They were going to get nowhere; she could already see it. Either because of their lack of knowledge or his stubbornness.

"I know not. The last thing I remember—" Lancelot suddenly stopped, his eyes growing almost haunted, a far off, almost stricken expression alighting his handsome features.

Megan raised an eyebrow, waited for him to finish. When he didn't, she prodded gently, but curiously, "All you remember?"

Lancelot focused on Megan, deadpanned solemnly, "Was dying."

Megan swallowed loudly, blinked slowly, a dazed, disbelieving look crossing her face. Dying? He died? Megan couldn't help but think that he was, in fact, mental. It was one thing to time travel, but being resurrected? Time traveling and resurrection… not even her imagination would allow her to swallow that one. If a person died, then that was it—they were dead. No passing go and collecting two hundred dollars, you were just dead and six feet under. Megan didn't believe in heaven or hell, she didn't believe in the after life, or anything else along those lines. Once a person died, then they were done, their life was over and they were forever enclosed in a box and placed in the ground. But here Lancelot was, claiming not only to be a Sarmatian Knight that had been zipped to the future, but a Sarmatian Knight that had been zipped to the future and brought back from the _dead_. Megan pinched the bridge of her nose; this just kept getting better and better.

"You think I am mad."

"Well… Time traveling, coming back from the dead… It is all a bit much to take in," she politely said, shrugging, and biting her bottom lip. However, she knew it had been the wrong thing to say, because his eyes clouded with anger and—something else.

Lancelot sprang up from the couch in a burst of pent of agitation and energy, and paced back and forth restlessly, snapping angrily, "Do you not think I realize that? All of this is—" He growled in impatience and anger, and ran a hand through his curls with irritation. Megan only watched him from her spot on the sofa, eyes wide—cautious—trepidation coiling in her body, making it tense as she watched him unmoving. Lancelot turned back to Megan, and saw the look in her eyes, and grudgingly regretted frightening the young woman. He sighed wearily, and Megan chewed on her bottom lip almost nervously.

"Look," Megan began softly, gently, knowing how hard it must be for him, and not wanting to anger him further. "I know that you're as confused as I am, and you have every right to be frustrated—I would be, too." She frowned and furrowed her brows in a contemplative way, and said more to herself than to Lancelot, "Actually, I'd probably be freaking out and going insane, but," she shook her head, and focused back on him, "never mind that." And she swallowed and looked at Lancelot whom was staring at her with dark eyes that held many things she couldn't distinguish. "We're going to figure it out—I promise."

Lancelot sighed again, frustration stemming from the situation making him agitated. Megan only watched him anxiously, body tense as she waited for his course of action. He was a stranger, after all, and there was no telling what he would do in a fit of anger. However, she felt almost positive that the knight—no, man, because there wasn't any proof to back what he was saying; she was just crazy to even think about believing him… However, she was almost positive that the man, whoever he really was, wouldn't hurt her or her family, despite how angry he became. How she did, she wasn't quite sure, but she was hoping it was true, and she wasn't putting her family in danger.

"I-I know this guy—he's a professor. He knows this other guy—they're both real history buffs, so maybe they can look at your stuff—the stuff I found you in—and, you know… Look at it, and—"

"Tell you if it is truly from my time, and to help you figure out if what I am saying is the truth," he said, jaw tight, angry, like his eyes, and Megan shifted, biting her lip.

She breathed in deeply, and said, "Lancelot, I want to believe you, I do, but even you have to admit that it's farfetched, and extremely implausible. I mean, the laws of science…" She sighed, and looked up at him. "This is crazy, _but, _and this a very difficult thing for me, I feel like you're telling the truth, or at the very least you think it's the truth. So until the guys can tell me different, I'm going to try my best to keep logic and science out of this big, bizarre equation, and try to help you as best I can, okay?"

Lancelot looked at her long and hard a second or two before nodding, and Megan smiled slightly. "Lady Megan—"

Megan barked out a gruff laugh. "Megan—it's just Megan actually. This is the twenty-first century after all—we don't really do the whole lady/lord thing anymore. At least most of us don't." She smiled, and shrugged. "So, just Megan."

Lancelot nodded slowly, everything hard to grasp, and managed a tight smile for Megan. "Megan, then." Megan flashed him a big, happy smile. "What do you propose we do first, this is your world, after all?"

She shrugged. "First things first—clothes. I'll take you into town, buy you some. Fel has to do some shopping anyways, so… Come on, time to introduce you to the twenty-first century." Megan got up from the couch, and motioned with her head for Lancelot to follow her. He did, and as they were walking up the stairs, both wondered just what exactly was in store for them in the future. And both of them couldn't help but feel both an unexplainable thrill, and a dim foreboding that couldn't be figured out.

_Wonderful. _

* * *

_A/N—Emm, yeah… I know… The bad thing is that most of this chapter has been written… This story, however, is proving difficult to write. Or actually, Lancelot's character is proving difficult to write as I'm trying to figure out just how he would be reacting, and what he would actually say. Anyways, but, no, I never gave up on this story. It's just taking a bit to update and whatnot… yeah… And I'll be going back and editing the last chapter because I read over it, and found little errors, and mistakes, and they bugged me, but nothing will be changed. Just to inform… yeah… Anyways, constructive criticism and suggestions are very much welcomed. Thanks for the reviews… _

_SatiricalPhilosophy_


	4. Chapter Three

_Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all the original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic._

Pulse: The Future

Chapter Three

He stared at himself in the looking glass—or mirror, as Megan had termed it—and at his current attire with distaste as he fingered it. He wondered why he couldn't just wear his clothes, instead of _this_: tan breeches made of some odd material that stopped at his knees in a raggedy hem, and a bright, vibrant yellow tunic that buttoned down in the front, and that had odd little trees and scantily clad girls dressed in grass skirts all over it. Never in his life had he seen anything like it, and the fact that he was wearing it now… It didn't please him, but Megan had told him in an apologetic tone that that was all she had for him to wear, and so it was only that that kept him from commenting on the objectionable clothing.

The young woman had also been nothing but kind to him, while he had been less than… chivalrous or pleasant. It would have been wrong of him to complain or grumble to the lady Megan—or just Megan as she had requested earlier—when she was offering both her help and home to him until the riddle and puzzle that was suddenly his life was figured out. So he was resolved to curb whatever anger or frustration that wished to express itself over the circumstances, and he would admit that it was abundant. The whole situation was just so perplexing, and as Megan had pointed out, complete madness—insanity. If he had not been living it, he would have thought it not possible and the person utterly deranged… just like Megan had.

That realization caused him to wince, and guilt at exploding at the woman earlier to find its way in his being. He had already regretted frightening her, and he knew he had because of the way she had stared at him wide-eyed, a scared and careful glint in the depths. And now that he realized just how all of this must appear to her, it weighed on him and made him regret his earlier outburst. The whole situation had just weighed so heavily upon him, was just so confusing and frustrating. He hadn't known anything, didn't know how he had come to be in this strange new age that, he would admit, was overwhelming. And, also, the event preceding this one—the Saxons, his freedom, the battle, his death—it had all weighed on him as well, and twisted with the current situation, leaving him feeling scorned and confused and angry and frustrated because he didn't understand any of it.

"I'll have to apologize to her," he said to himself, his course of action set in his mind. She was just as clueless as he was, and it wasn't fair that he had vented his anger out on her. He sighed, and looked at himself in the looking—mirror, once again, frowning.

A knock on the open door caused him to look up at Megan. She stood in the doorway smiling slightly, and waited for an invitation.

"Hi," she said. "I just wanted to give you these so you wouldn't have to walk around barefoot or anything." She held out a pair of shoes—a sort of sandal, but different than the ones the Romans and others wore. Again he wondered why he couldn't wear his own clothes and shoes, and Megan must have saw something on his face because she explained, "They're flip-flops. It's the only thing Carson left behind last time he stayed…"

"What about my clothes?" Lancelot asked, accepting the flip-flops and dropping them to the floor. He slipped his feet in, and wiggled his toes, hating them already.

Megan shrugged. "They'd draw attention, and they're a little dirty and stuff," she informed him. "But if you're ready, and if you're absolutely sure you're up to going out because I know you just woke up and stuff—"

"I'm fine," Lancelot interrupted her abruptly, but then managed a tense, brief smile, slightly sardonic, bitter. "I've had worse."

Megan nodded her head slowly, bit her lip, then said, "Of course you have. Well, then, we should probably go. Fel and Aiden are already downstairs, so if you're absolutely sure…"

"My weapons first, please," he requested.

Megan blinked, frowned. "Sorry, no can do. See, people can't carry weapons around in broad daylight, not without a permit anyways. Otherwise the police would arrest them."

He frowned. What kind of world didn't allow men to carry weapons? How would he defend himself? And what where these police she spoke of?

He asked her, and she responded. "Policemen are… well, they're the ones that carry out the law, and protect the people… um, like knights, I guess…"

"Then they will understand why I must have my weapons," he insisted.

She bit her lip, frowning more, and making a sound that wasn't exactly a sigh. "Lancelot, no, they wouldn't. They'd probably shoot first, and then ask questions. And then when you did tell them your story, they'd think you were crazy," she explained. "You don't need weapons, okay. You'll be safe. Just trust me, okay?"

Lancelot continued to frown, not happy at all about the situation. However, Megan had said he would not need weapons, that he would be safe—though he was scarcely worried about his safety when two women and a child would be accompanying him. She had said to trust her, but what if it was all a trap. An ambush of enemies waiting to seize him, torture him, kill him, and she was just following orders. But, no, as much as he would like to keep his suspicion alive, because suspicion helped a man survive, he could not believe that about the woman in front of him. If she said it was safe, and that he should trust her, than he would—if grudgingly.

Finally, though, he consented, and she flashed him a quick smile. "Good, then if ready…"

Lancelot nodded, and walked over to Megan, resolutely not looking at himself in the mirror again. Megan turned, and he followed her small figure down the hallway and stairs. At the bottom he saw Megan's sister, Felicia, and Megan's nephew, Aiden. Felicia was fussing with the child's hair and jacket, fiddling with the buttons on it, while the small, dark red-gold colored dog they called Ruddy was anxiously prancing around their feet, wagging his tail and begging for attention. When the little animal spotted Megan, he rushed over to her, and Megan laughed amusedly, bending and scratching the dog's head. When Lancelot reached the bottom landing, standing close behind Megan, Ruddy looked at him warily and sniffed around his feet and legs. Lancelot let him, looking at him for a brief moment before looking elsewhere and ignoring him.

Felicia had glanced up when they had reached the bottom. She stared at Lancelot with a raised eyebrow, an appraising look on her face, and he knew she thought he looked ridiculous.

"Nice outfit," she said, and glanced at Megan before turning to her son.

Megan glanced over her shoulder at him, and told him, "Ignore Felicia, you look fine." Lancelot didn't say anything, only followed the two women and the child out of the house, stopping when Megan did when she halted to lock the front door and walking again when she started to.

Outside the weather was nice, a bit nippy, and the yard was well kept, and Lancelot knew her house was in a remote location from the surrounding landscape. He could tell by the dense forest that edged the boundary of her immaculate yard and the dirt road that led away from her house. The house itself was a modest two-story, white with a large, roofed wrap-around porch in front. A wicker chair that rocked set in the corner of the porch that was closed off and didn't wrap around with other matching furniture setting stylishly around it. A bench of sorts that was hung up by chains was off to the other side and overlooking the large expanse of open front yard. Odd toys—at least Lancelot supposed they were toys—laid here and there in the yard, and off to one side were two large, peculiar looking… machines, he supposed, that gleamed when sunlight hit them.

One of them was a dark purple and the other a dark green. Megan was walking toward the green machine, while Felicia and Aiden went to the purple one. What the machines purpose were, Lancelot did not know, but he frowned, wary of it.

Megan hit a button on a device that was connected to her keys. A beeping noise sounded for a second, coming from the green machine, lights flashing from the front of it and the rear of it. He stopped, body tensing, reading to go into stance as he looked at it through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Perhaps it was a monster instead of a machine; he wished he had some weapon to protect himself.

Megan opened a door, exposing the inside of the beast, and then glanced back and then away from him. Then, though, she turned back to him, and raised an eyebrow, frowning slightly. "Lancelot, come on, get in." He looked at her, then the beast, and heard Felicia chuckle.

"It's okay, Lancelot. It's a vehicle," Felicia informed him, then directed her attention to her sister as he pondered what she had said. A vehicle? "Might want to explain it to him, Meg. Your knight looks like he's about to attack it. Anyways, I'll see you in town."

"You're not coming with us?" Megan asked, and still keeping the "vehicle" in his sight, he watched the sisters interact.

Felicia shook her head, helping Aiden in the back of the large, long vehicle. "No, I'm going to take the mini van. More room for groceries and stuff than you're Liberty, especially since you have your own shopping to do," she explained, though Lancelot had a suspicion that it was more than just grocery shopping that made her take the other vehicle. From Megan's little frown as she stared at her sister, he supposed she knew as well.

"Okay, then. We'll see you in town, or back here," she said. "Be safe." Then she turned back to him, eyes meeting. "This is vehicle, as Fel told you. It's how we get around nowadays."

He frowned, like a carriage or wagon, but then… "And the horses?"

Megan arched an eyebrow. "No horses. Technology's come a long way since your time, Lancelot. This is powered all by its self. And it's faster than horses, too. So come on, get in," she told him.

He still wasn't convinced, though. "And this "vehicle" is safe?" he asked, stressing the word vehicle, testing it on his tongue, and retaining his frown. By the time all of this was said and done, the frown marring his face would have turned permanent, he was sure of it.

Megan shrugged. "Mostly. Like horses accidents can happen." He didn't move, though, and she must have seen his reluctance and doubt. "Look, just trust me, okay? You'll be fine, promise. Scouts Honor, even," she said, attempting a joke.

His brow furrowed. "Scouts honor? You are a scout? Tristan was—"

"N-no, never mind. It was just a reference," she explained. "We better go." And she pulled herself up into the high vehicle, turned, and beckoned him to go around and get in the other side.

Still frowning Lancelot slowly, warily, made his way to the other side of the vehicle. He got in, the leather of the seats cool against exposed flesh. The inside of it was comprised of buttons, a large glass window in front of them spanning from one side of the vehicle to the other, and windows on each of the doors and in the very back; a wheel was directly in front of Megan with a slot on the side of it where Megan was currently sliding in a key, turning it.

The vehicle came to life, voices shouting with loud noises in the background filling the car along with an incessant beeping noise, startling him. It took Megan grabbing his arm and reassuring him that it was okay for him not to jump out. Megan reached for one of the knobs, turned it, and immediately the screaming voices went away. However, the beeping didn't, and his nerves were still wired, his heart still pounding.

"Close the door," Megan said. He listened, and the beeping went away. He looked around astonished, wide-eyed, and heard a small sound of amusement escape the woman beside him. He turned to her, and she was fighting a smile, a sparkle in her eyes. "It beeps unless you close the door; everything's okay."

He wasn't satisfied. "And the voices? Are they trapped in this—this _vehicle _as you call it?"

She raised an arched brow, and said, smiling gently, "No, it was just the radio."

He narrowed his eyes. "Radio?" he said, trying the word out like he did vehicle.

She nodded. "Yeah. It's a form of entertainment—a way for people all over the nation to listen to music and talk shows. It was just music, promise."

Music. _That_ had been music? It had sounding nothing like any music he had ever heard before. It was nothing like Vanora's sweet songs, or even of some of the songs the chore of Christians had sung that he had heard on an occasion or two, or even of the songs sung by his fellow knights or other patrons of the tavern.

He expressed his thoughts, and Megan only shrugged, turning away from him as she did something with the vehicle. He watched her turn in her seat, look behind her, and then the vehicle was moving and he was grabbing whatever to hold himself.

"Time's change. There's all type of music now. That was just a little bit of metal." She glanced at him. "Buckle up." And she pointed to the strap hanging next to him. He frowned, reached for it, pulled it, and under her instructions finally figured out how to buckle himself in. Then he was back to holding to the door, and the seat as Megan continued to drive the vehicle down the dirt road away from her house.

As they continued their journey, Lancelot tenser than he had ever been in his life and watching as trees flew by swiftly, he noticed Megan. She was frowning slightly as she watched the road that had turned from dirt to some kind of smooth, dark stone with a yellow line painted in the middle, and he knew something was wrong. Perhaps it was because of him that she frowned now, and he regretted to admit that he did not like that idea very much. All ready he had raged at the lady; he would feel worse if he found he had upset her again.

"Something bothers you," he stated, no question to it.

She glanced at him. "Huh, oh, no. I'm fine."

She was lying, and he knew it. "You lie. Have I done something to offend or upset you?" he asked.

He saw an eyebrow arch, and she glanced quickly at him again out of the corner of her eye. "No, Lancelot, you haven't done anything."

"What troubles you then?" he questioned.

"Nothing," she insisted, and he looked at her unrelentingly, firmly, intently, and she sighed. "I was just wondering if this is all too soon for you. I mean really thinking," she confessed. "I mean you don't know the first thing about this century, and I saw how you reacted to the car. There's going to be a lot of cultural shock, and I haven't done the first thing to prepare you for it. Hell, Fel was the one that had to tell you it was a car for heavens sake." And he could sense that she was irritated with herself.

He wished to reach out and touch her to reassure her that she was doing a fine job, but quelled the impulse. "You have told me that this century holds many surprises. I do not think even if you had a fortnight to prepare me, that I would not have this cultural shock, as you called it," he told her.

"Yeah, I know. However, I could have let you rest at least. Let you absorb everything instead of whisking you to town where there's going to be a lot more people to deal with, and a lot more things."

"Megan," he said, "rest would not have prepared me, and I am fine." Then after a moment, said, "And quite frankly I do not relish these clothing."

She glanced at him, a smile on her face. "You do look kind of funny in them." It caused both of them to smile, and have a small laugh before lapsing into silence.

After several long minutes, however, it was broken by Lancelot. "I apologize for earlier," he said softly.

Her brow furrowed, and she asked confused, "For what?"

"For frightening you, for yelling when you were only trying to help," he told her. "And I am sorry."

She shrugged, kept her eyes on the road. "Don't worry about it. I'm a teacher for Christ sakes," she said. "Kids lose their cool all the time. Don't sweat it."

Eyebrow raised, he questioned, "Sweat it?"

"It's an idiom, meaning like don't worry about it. Sorry, I'll try to hold back my American twenty-first century slang," she joked.

His brow furrowed. "American."

Megan sighed, and said, "Oh, boy." And she continued to drive.

**-8-8-8-**

After a very long conversation about America, the states, and the one Lancelot was currently in, a still-befuddled Lancelot and Megan arrived into town. So not only had he skipped centuries and risen back from the dead, but he had also switched continents and countries as well. Again if he hadn't been living it, he wouldn't have believed it, and that was probably the only thing keeping his frustration in check, because he had no wish to rave at Megan again for something she had little control over. And there again was the inkling of suspicion that maybe she did, however he quickly pushed it aside—no, that just wasn't possible. But perhaps her sister…

_You've become paranoid from all your long years of fighting, Lancelot. The woman's a mother, and obviously doesn't trust you around her or her child. So why would she possibly want you to come to their time? She wouldn't._

He was sure of it. He did not get the feelings of almost absolute trust like he did with Megan, but logic alone helped him reach the deduction. No mother in her right mind would possibly do something that would endanger her children, and Lancelot knew that if it had been Felicia's choice and her house that she wouldn't have taken him in. Felicia didn't trust him, maybe didn't even like him, and so therefore couldn't possibly know anything as to why he was here. Unless of course she wasn't in her right mind…But, no…

However, Megan's willingness to help him, to keep him close, it could all be because she was the reason for his being here. It would fit, and she had no children to protect, only a sister and a nephew, but he knew she had nothing to do with this freak occurrence. She was as dumbfounded as him, and they swam in the dark together.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. A headache was starting to form from all this thinking. He half wished he were at the tavern with the knights, a pretty girl in his lap, or in his room in his own bed sleeping even, or even just sitting around the camp fire with the other knights on one of their assignments. Only awake for a few hours, and he already wished he were back home—

_Home._

Funny, he had never considered it home as much as he did just then. Amazing what getting stuck in a different century and coming back from the dead would do to ones outlook. Just bloody amazing…

"I know it's all a lot to take in, but it'll be okay," Megan spoke.

He glanced at her sidelong, and forced the frustrated, sarcastic retort back. It wasn't the young woman's fault, and she was trying to help him; he kept making himself remember that so he wouldn't snap at her.

"You'll forgive me if I have a hard time believing that," he said to her. "Call me a pessimist if you will."

He saw her bite her lip, glance at him. "I guess you have every right to be," she replied, then added, "We're here."

Megan pulled the vehicle into a lot with many other vehicles of various sizes, and after a few minutes turned the vehicle before stopping it. A large building, long in length, and made of stone—white and rather nondescript—dominated the lot. It was not anything spectacular, though he would have said the size of it if he had not seen large manors belonging to noble Romans before on his and the knights many quests and assignments. However, as it was, it wasn't anything special or awe inspiring.

"What is this place?" Lancelot asked.

Megan unbuckled, and Lancelot followed her example. She looked up at the building, then glanced at him, hair falling from behind one ear where she had brushed it back. "It's the mall. Biggest thing Halls has, and besides the scenery, the only tourist attraction, too. Makes me wonder if we can have a mall, why not a hospital," she said, added, "Guess vanity and the like's more important than people's health."

Lancelot didn't comment, frowned, but didn't comment, and then looked back up at the building, this "mall." What exactly was a mall, though? He asked Megan, and she replied, "A big shopping complex that has all different types of stores in it—kind of like one big, big market place that sells different things. Halls' Mall isn't that big, but it's mostly clothing and shoe stores, so we're good."

Lancelot nodded, and when Megan opened her door after reaching in the back for something, he followed her example. Ears strained, senses alert, he was vigilant and ready for anything, scanning the surrounding area for any possible threat. Megan walked straight toward the building, oblivious to any danger there might have been, and it bugged Lancelot that she seemed confident all was well and safe. No, it wasn't quite her attitude that bugged him, but that she walked ahead of him where she would be the first to intercept an attack if there was going to be one. It was his responsibility to protect her.

"Megan," he said, and she glanced back at him. "You should stay behind me in case of attack. I do not know—"

A smile tugged her lips, and she interrupted him, saying, "As sweet as that is, don't worry about it. We're safe, and I don't need to be protected." He went to protest, but she continued on, tugged at his arm a little with her warm hand. "Come on. If it makes you feel better, I'll walk beside you."

It was the best he was going to get, he knew, so he consented, and they were off, reaching the mall in less than a minute. They reached the doors, and Lancelot raised a brow. There were four double doors, separated by a black barrier, but all connected. Why did they need so many doors? And as Megan opened one, held it open for him, and he followed her through, he saw a second set like the first. A weird, lighted machine with strange words and strange looking—jugs, he supposed—set at the far wall. He looked at it with a quizzical expression, and Megan whispered something about it being a pop machine, whatever that was supposed to mean. What exactly was pop?

"It's a carbonated drink with different flavors. I'll let you try it sometime," she told him. "Fel and I personally don't drink it, same with Aiden, but you might like it." She shrugged, smiled, and grabbed his hand, pulling him along as a weird sensation went through him starting at his hand.

As Lancelot entered the mall, he saw it was crowded with people. They were dressed oddly—like himself and Megan, he determined, though still odd to him—and came in a variety of skin shades and hair colors—hair colors he had never even seen before on people. Besides the abnormal hair coloring on some of the people, though, the most shocking were the women. Well, not really shocking, he just found no other word to describe it.

Almost all of them were dressed like men: in breeches and tunics. He had only seen Woad women dress like that, like a cross-dresser, and the women and girls that weren't wearing breeches, quite a few of them were wearing dresses/skirts so short—even Lancelot that was used to the wenches that worked in the taverns thought it indecent and appalling. And some of the females that wore such clothing looked to have seen only thirteen or so winters. It was appalling! And where were their men? Did they honestly allow their women to dress like that, to be seen in such garb? Quite a few of them, he noticed, seemed to be here alone, carrying on and whatnot. Their men, father or brother or husband or whatever male in charge of them, seemed to be absent. And the men that were around, some of them seemed to be submissive to their woman, while others just didn't seem to care, and others…

The future had apparently turned into a world lacking modesty and decency and chivalry, and was replaced by harlots and whores and the like. Even he, the wanton knight that enjoyed the company of a woman, found it to be indecent and disgusting.

And then his eyes fell on the most disturbing sight of all: a man dressed in a short dress some pale pink shade and that exposed much of his body, his hair styled into delicate curls and his face painted up—like a woman!

His countenance must have expressed his disgust and astonishment, because Megan spoke to him, saying and looking at him almost expressionlessly, "It's a different time, Lancelot. Things that wouldn't be acceptable in your time are in this one."

He looked down at her, found her standing in front of him, looking up. "Acceptable?" he asked, obviously appalled. "It is—"

"A good way to offend people, and start a fight," she said, warning in her voice. "The people here are nice, but can be judgmental, especially since most of the citizens are elderly. If they can accept it, then you can, too."

He took a deep breath, glanced again at the people. "It's just cultural shock, I get that, but others won't. Just because they're different and not what you're used to, that doesn't make them bad people," she told him. "Look at me—I'm dressed similar to them, and you don't have a problem with me. Fel, too. She's dressed like everyone else, and you don't have a problem with her."

He looked at Megan. She wasn't quite dressed like them. The flowy skirt billowed to her ankles, just scraping the floor, and the blue sweater that was a few shades paler than the vibrant, flower-patterned skirt covered much of her. Her outfit, though different than the attire he was used to women of his time wearing, he could overlook. Felicia's… He had overlooked it merely because it was one woman wearing it, not many, and he had had other things that occupied his mind than the odd dressing habits of Megan's sister. However, now, being in a building surrounded by the same dressing trend, it was more difficult to overlook.

She must have read his thoughts, because she told him, "I just got off work teaching hormonal teenagers not long ago, _and_ I'm not a teenager anymore. I can't quite get away with dressing as teenager-ish anymore, but I still dress much the same way. It's just the way things are."

Lancelot was willing to try and accept that because he knew what she said was truth, as hard as it was. However, there was one thing he just couldn't bring himself to accept… "And the man that dresses like a woman? I suppose that is part of how things are now as well?"

Megan shrugged. "There have always been people like that. The only difference between my time and yours is that people are more open and accepting about it," she informed him, saw his shocked and disgusted expression. "People are free to dress like they want here, unlike your time. I mean can you imagine what would happen if someone tried. Prosecution."

He still didn't seem to be giving in, and she sighed, said, "Can you at least try?" And then shrugged. "Or if you would prefer you can continue wearing that."

Lancelot grimaced, and Megan smiled. "What I thought. Come on." And she grabbed his hand, and began to pull him further into the mall.

Lancelot let her drag him to wherever. He could only look with fascination and that ever-present repulsion as she continued to lead him by the hand. Truly he was trying not to be _as_ repulsed by the new customs and dress of the twenty-first century, however he was finding it hard. Megan seemed to understand, but she still urged him to try. And try he did, though more so for the girl than himself.

Finally, though, Megan pulled him into an entrance of some store, and around him were all sorts of garments of all sorts of colors, sizes, style, look—it was a giant variety, and he was utterly amazed. Never had he seen so many clothes before, at least not at once, and most certainly not like this. When Megan pulled on his hand, he glanced at her and saw her smiling, and then she was leading him away again to some place within the large store.

"Here we are," she announced, pulling him into the array of clothing. "The men's department." There were so many articles of clothing; it was almost overwhelming. "Just pick out anything, and then we'll get you to try it on and see what you like."

Lancelot, though, didn't know where to start, and as Megan fingered through clothes hanging on metal constructions, he only stood there looking around. None of this was what he was used to, and he didn't know what to pick up. After several minutes, Megan glanced up at him, and upon seeing his confused, distressed face, must have figured out his dilemma.

He looked at her, she at him, and she smiled at him in amusement, asking, "Need help?"

And all he said was, "Please."

Megan walked over to him, and together they began their search for clothes for Lancelot. Megan insisted on a little of everything, mostly attire that edged along the line of casual sophistication, saying she could see him in it, and it wouldn't be too dressy. Finally, arms loaded full of clothes, she sent him in the direction of the fitting rooms, telling him if he wanted to show her to just walk out and model for her. He, however, only stopped and searched for this supposed sign that said fitting rooms. A minute passed, and Megan noticed he was still standing there, looking around with that befuddled look adopted on his face again.

"Lancelot?" she questioned, and he turned to her. "Fitting rooms, right there. See that sign?" she asked.

He looked at the sign, saw the letters, frowned, and couldn't figure out how Megan got fitting rooms out of it. He knew how to read and write, something Arthur had taught him himself and that had helped bond them closer, and knew how to spell both fit and room, and that looked nothing like it.

He frowned, Megan frowned, and he said, "I think you are mistaken, my lady. That does not say fitting room."

She looked up at the sign, back at him, asked, tone careful, "Lancelot, can you… uh… I mean… do you know how to read? I know most of the people didn't then, so it's nothing to be ashamed of, I was just… well, that is most definitely "fitting rooms,"" she said.

He looked shocked, outraged almost, and sputtered, "Yes, I know how to read." It was a touchy subject for him for some reason, and the implication… It irked him. "And that most definitely is not fitting rooms."

They frowned and looked intently at each other, trying to figure it out. After several long minutes, she titled her head slightly, and said suspiciously, "Lancelot, spell fitting rooms." Though confused, he did as she asked, and when he was finished a tense grimace crossed Megan's face. "Of course. I'd been wondering about that. Now it explains it… and yet doesn't."

"What?"

She sighed, looked at him. "During the Dark Ages, the vernacular of that time period was Latin," she explained. He raised an eyebrow, she continued on. "Now, though, there are thousands of languages all across the world. The most common in America is English, followed closely by Spanish, but never mind that." She waved her hand as if to brush it away.

He had a sneaky suspicion, but he asked anyways. "And?"

"_And_ the whole time you've been here, except a few times when you were comatose, you've been speaking English—perfectly!" she exclaimed, and Lancelot blinked, surprised. "I started thinking about it on the drive here, and couldn't figure it out because if you really were from the Dark Ages, obviously you wouldn't know English. However, it seems I got my answer," said Megan.

Slowly, Lancelot asked, "Which would be?"

"You can speak English, but you can't read it or spell it, and that doesn't really making sense at all," she mumbled, and after several seconds of muttering looked up at Lancelot, and said, "Go try those clothes on. Go on, shoo, while I think."

Lancelot raised both eyebrows at the word "shoo," and she shrugged, smiling sheepishly. He went though, knowing where the fitting rooms were now. And whether it was because he had so much on his plate already, and was numb to any other shocking news, the fact he knew a language that apparently he shouldn't did not faze him. He was not sure if that was good or bad, but for the moment, took it as a blessing for he could not handle anymore "surprises." His head still pounded, and his frustration still simmered right beneath the surface.

No, it was better if he did not focus too hard or too long on this odd occurrence. He had come back from the dead, been sent centuries into the future, and was in a completely different country than the one he had died in. Why should being able to speak, yet not read or write, a new language surprise him? If he hadn't been a battle-hardened knight, and just Lancelot in general, he swore he would have laughed insanely, hysterically by now, because surely he couldn't be sane.

He sighed wearily, shook his pounding head, and began to try on the clothes that he would "model" for Megan.

_Focus on one thing at a time, Lancelot. One thing at a time._

He wished it were that simple.

* * *

_A/N—Would have kept going, but I thought this was long enough. People have lives, so they don't want to waste it on enormously long chapters, yeah… As always, forgive for any remaining typos—it's late, I'm a wee bit tires, you know the drill. Any questions, then ask. I'll try to answer the best I can. Constructive criticism welcomed. And thank you for the reviews—always appreciated. _

_SatiricalPhilosophy _


	5. Chapter Four

_Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all the original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic._

Pulse: The Future

Chapter Four

She sat there in a chair in front of the fitting rooms, her mind racing as she waited for Lancelot to come model another outfit for her. It just didn't make sense—none of it. In fact, it just kept getting weirder and weirder. She knew, had resolved it after her little Lancelot-language discovery, that as soon as she got home she would give Professor Brinkley a call… or considering the time it would probably be, she would just wait until tomorrow. Then she would explain the situation to the professor, the _whole_ situation, and see what he thought about it. Then, hopefully, he would make a trip down to Maine and look at Lancelot's belongings, hopefully even bring his friend. That would surely get her _somewhere_, though where she wasn't sure.

Suppose his stuff _wasn't _the genuine stuff from Dark Ages, and come to find out he had been lying to her the entire time, what then? She didn't know, but if she thought about it, really thought about it, some part that she wouldn't admit to anyone—the part that everyone had, the little kid side of a person, the dreamer in everyone—sincerely hoped that Lancelot was telling the truth. Because if he wasn't… she knew that nothing she could say would convince Felicia to let him stay, even though it was Megan's house—would she even _want_ him to stay? She would think not, but she wasn't so sure…

But why did she want it to be true so bad, too?

She didn't know that either. He had only been awake a _day_, and she was already hoping she'd get to keep him. She snorted at that—get to keep him, she sounded like she was referring to one of the many strays she and Fel would bring home and beg their mother to let them keep when they were children. No, Lancelot was a living, breathing man, and Megan… she sighed…

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she had taken care of him when he was incapacitated. Sure, Fel was his nurse, but for the most part, Megan was one the one that took care of him—at least when she wasn't working that is. Maybe those two weeks that she had cared for him, listened to him mummer in his sleep and sometimes, before Doc Barnes had said he had lapsed in a coma, let him hold her hand and whisper odd things to her in Latin so soft she couldn't discern them, maybe that had something to do with it. Perhaps the attachment she was feeling was because she had cared for him for the past two weeks, and to find out after all that he had lied to her… She was a person that considered trust of the utmost importance; that said enough.

_Or maybe you want him to be real because he's _Lancelot_, your favorite legend of them all. _

She grimaced. It was true. The character Lancelot had always intrigued her, probably because it was said he to be the best out of them all, or just whatever made a character favorable to a person. It still stood, though, that the character Lancelot was her favorite knight of them all when she had read the stories of Arthur and the Round Table, and maybe she was hoping he was the real deal simply because of that reason alone. She knew Felicia found it amusing because her sister knew about her little… thing. But it wasn't like Fel didn't have some weird fantasy about some mythical, fictional character—think Jean-Claude, the sexy vampire from the popular Anita Blake novels.

_At least my fantasy guy is human,_ she though amusedly. Then, though, someone was clearing their throat, drawing her out of her spaced-out daze. She blinked, and looked up to find Lancelot standing there in the third outfit. It was a simple black button-down dress shirt with a white shirt underneath it and a pair of fashionable dark blue jeans. She smirked, and motioned for him to turn around. He rolled his eyes, playfully, of course, because he was used to this, and modeled for her like all the other times as she flicked her eyes up and down appraising him. He turned back to her, and she continued her scrutiny.

In all honestly he looked as good as he did in the last one and the one before that one and so on. She was just putting up the show, because really it was what was comfortable to him.

Finally she shrugged. "I approve. Do you like it?"

Lancelot just put on a little half-smile, and replied, "Clothes are clothes. I've learned to not be picky about such things."

She nodded slowly. "Because of the whole knight and Dark Ages thing, right? I imagine times were increasingly difficult, and the people took what they got."

"Mostly, yes."

Megan bit her lip, a gleam entering her eyes as a thought occurred to her, and she felt almost guilty for it. However, her guilt didn't stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. "You know, you would be an _excellent_ guest speaker for my class." And then she almost blushed, and said, "I'm sorry. Teacher in me."

"And what is it you teach?" asked Lancelot, genuinely curious.

Megan shrugged. "History and English. I've got a degree in both, and because there's a serious lack of teachers at the school, they've got me teaching both subjects. Safe to say it can be hectic at times."

"You like history?"

"I find it fascinating, yeah."

Lancelot frowned. "Why? It is full of nothing but bloodshed and war," he said. "And anyways, why concentrate on the past when there is so little time in the future?"

She frowned. "To learn from our mistakes," she answered, almost asking it. "Lancelot, there's more than just bad things in the past; there's a lot of good things in it, too. Just like now."

Lancelot's face was closed off, eyes hard. "Then maybe I am blind, because I do not see it."

Megan looked at him a little remorsefully. "Lancelot…"

He turned. "I will try on the next outfit." And then he left, leaving Megan to look after him sadly, wondering how anyone could get so bitter.

_He's had a hard life. Always fighting, and now this… No wonder…_

Megan sighed. Of course, but still, she didn't like it. She hated seeing people with no hope, hated seeing anyone—well, not everyone—despair and loose any hope of the future. And she was sure that was what had happened to Lancelot. She wasn't sure of his story; all she knew was the legend Lancelot in literature. This one that found she found herself opening her house and trust to probably had a story far different that the mythical Lancelot. Maybe one day he'd tell her, but for now what she knew was enough. The man had lost everything; hell, he had lost even his life, literally, and then woke to find himself in her home, in her time without any knowledge of he had gotten there. No wonder he was so pessimistic and bitter. She was sure if she was in his position, if she had endured whatever he had endured, she would have just given up by now. But Lancelot, despite the odds, was still pushing forward.

So bitter he was; he hadn't given up yet.

_A good sign. _

And then she was again thinking of the mystery that was Lancelot, or better yet the mystery that got Lancelot in her backyard. It. Just. Didn't. Make. Sense. It would make more sense if he didn't know English period, but as it was he just could read or write it. What was up with that? That was the part that made the lest amount sense to her. He could speak it, understood English verbally, but when written… Just didn't make sense, and she couldn't figure it out. Wasn't even close to figuring it out, and it was annoying her that the answers kept eluding her, not to mention giving her a big, uber-mega headache.

She sighed, and leaned back in the chair, resting her head on the back of it—just absolutely no sense whatsoever. She heard Lancelot walk out, and without moving her head, flicked her eyes down to look at him. Again, he looked good, and again she gave him the thumbs up, and again and again and again they repeated the process, all the while her headache grew as she continued to ponder. Finally, though, Lancelot was finished, and selected what he wanted and what he didn't, and then Megan pulled him the shoes.

She advised him to get three pairs—one for comfort and casual, one for dressy occasions, and one for in-between. He listened, thinking she knew best in this matter, and together they picked out shoes and then socks and then underwear for him. And that was both an amusing and awkward situation that Megan hoped never to repeat again, though Lancelot seemed amused at her discomfort in an entirely masculine way. She would have said something witty to him, but seeing him amused and not sullen was enough to still her tongue and make easy of the situation.

"Is that it? Is that all you need?" she asked, biting her lip as she thought about it. Then she exclaimed, "No! Toiletries. We can get that, though, at Mar's."

Lancelot's brow furrowed. "Mar's?"

Megan nodded, and explained, "Yeah, Mar's Super Center. It's this big supermarket where you can get everything else."

Lancelot just went "ahh," and then Megan beckoned Lancelot to follow her as she went to pay for Lancelot's clothes, explaining quietly what a cash register was and whatnot as she went. Then, after everything was paid for, they left the mall, Lancelot carrying the bags, while Megan just looked on surprised. What guy carried bags for the ladies anymore? She hadn't met many. Oh, sure, she'd had guys that carried bags while she did, too. However, a guy that insisted on carrying the bags all by himself—it made her almost miss chivalry. Then, though, she pushed the thoughts away and pressed the button to unlock the doors to the forest green Jeep Liberty, telling Lancelot to just put them in the backseat. Then, after they had buckled up, Megan started the ignition, backed up, and pulled out of the parking lot.

It didn't take long to get to Mar's Super Center. The whole drive, Megan noticed that Lancelot had watched the town with avid attention. He had asked her a question or two, but mostly the drive to the store had been one of silence. Now, Megan unbuckled and got out, Lancelot following her example. They walked to the doors together, and when they slid open by themselves, Lancelot stopped suddenly, looking at them with marvel, and again, shock.

"It's okay, Lancelot. They're supposed to do that," Megan said, grabbing his arm, and pulling him through the doors. Lancelot turned his head back, looking at the doors that slid closed as they continued in the store, and Megan couldn't help but find it amusing.

"Your world is indeed a strange one," Lancelot said, and Megan smirked.

"Trust me, it can get stranger." And then she led the way to the hygiene and healthcare section of the store. "So, what do we need?" she asked, more to herself than to Lancelot.

Besides her father she hadn't even lived with a male before, and having to by male products now seemed weird to her. Maybe she should have brought Fel with her. Felicia could help Lancelot out a lot more than she could when it came to male essentials. The woman had been married for years for Christ sakes; if she didn't know what to get, then something was wrong. But then she shook herself mentally, telling herself that she was twenty-five years old, and if she couldn't figure out what essentials to get just because the person in question had a penis, then she should be striped of her adult title. Honestly. Thus, she and her knightly companion set off to get the necessary items he would need for his stay in the twenty-first century.

Surprisingly it only took them a little less than an hour. Though, Megan supposed, that was probably because he hadn't asked much questions, instead just trusting her judgment and what she told him. Or maybe he just had so much on his mind already that he was numb to any more surprising shocks. It made Megan grimace internally, thinking that wasn't a good sign and that it was probably time to go home. The knight had had enough cultural shock for the day; it was time for him to rest now, let him process everything he had learnt and discovered about the new world.

"Megan."

Megan stopped and turned at the familiar voice, looking at Aiden with furrowed brows. He stood a little ways from her, alone, and just staring at her with those intense eyes of his, expressionlessly. Megan scanned the area, and wondered what in the hell Aiden was doing wandering the store alone. Felicia didn't let Aiden out her sight, and Megan didn't either when he was under her charge, so what the hell…

"Aiden?" she asked surprised. The child started to walk toward her, and Megan walked toward him. "What? Where's your mother?" She looked around again, and still there wasn't any sign of the blonde haired, green-eyed female anywhere.

Aiden stopped when there was only a foot between them, looking at up her with those same eerie eyes and blank expression. He turned and pointed in the opposite direction. Megan followed where he was pointing; frowned, turning her eyes back to her eight-year-old nephew. She met his gaze with her own, and was tempted to redirect her.

She bent down, balanced on her toes, and said, "Aiden, you know you're not supposed to wander off."

Aiden just stared at her, nothing about his composure changing—it was still that same aloof, detached, cold demeanor that sometimes unnerved her. It just wasn't right; a child that never smiled or had sparkles in there eyes. She supposed though, with everything he had went through, he probably did have a few scars, and not the kind of scars that were visible. It made her wonder about her sister then, wondering just how much damage she had that Megan couldn't see, that she didn't know about. Then he turned and looked at Lancelot; Megan continued to frown, watching as Aiden just stared at Lancelot and vice versa.

"Aiden!"

Megan looked up in the direction Aiden had pointed seconds ago, where she heard Felicia's worried, concern-filled voice coming from. Seconds later the blonde appeared, and upon seeing Aiden a relieved look crossed her face. Megan straightened up, and watched as Aiden turned toward his mother as she drew up to them.

"Aiden, honey, what are you doing?" Felicia asked. "I've told you countless times _not_ to wander off. Do you know how worried I was when I turned around and you weren't there?"

Aiden stared at her blankly, and said,"Sorry, Mommy."

Felicia sighed; brow furrowed as she looked at her son, and then up at Megan and Lancelot who stood there watching the display. Megan raised an eyebrow, and Felicia sighed again.

"Get everything you needed?" Felicia asked.

Megan nodded. "Yeah, pretty sure."

Felicia nodded, and silently they made their way to the cash registers—Megan, Lancelot, Felicia, and Aiden. Lancelot watched with avid attention as the cashier rang up the products, something he had done back at the mall, too. Megan thought it was amusing, and Felicia apparently did as well, because Megan could see amusement in her eyes, though cold wariness dominated much of it. Then though, the cashier was finished, Lancelot was frowning, and Megan could tell he was itching to touch the electronics. That would definitely not go over easy.

Megan paid, and turned to her sister. "See you back at the house. Come on, Lancelot. Let's go." And then they were leaving, Lancelot watching the doors open and close on their own with that same shocked fascination he had the first time.

**­-8-8-8-**

Night had fallen, and Megan sat in one of the kitchen chairs grading papers, scratching her golden retriever's head as she went. After helping put Lancelot's new clothes and toiletries away, and explaining the shower and toilet and other such things, she had left him to shower. She had been pleased to note that it went without incident, and she was pretty sure Felicia was, too.

She sighed, setting back in the chair and taking off her rectangular reading glasses. Felicia was against what she was doing, she knew. She didn't trust Lancelot and had already informed Megan that she thought he was lying. Felicia's mistrust for him had only grown when Megan had told her about the language incident, how he could speak English but couldn't read or spell it, but knew Latin. She was convinced it was a fraud, that Lancelot was a fraud, and he was just pulling Megan along, milking her for what she was worth. Megan, though, couldn't help but disagree with her sister, and first thing tomorrow morning she was going to call Professor Brinkley and get his opinion on the whole matter.

However, despite Felicia's obvious doubt in Lancelot and Megan's judgment, Megan wasn't angry with her. It wasn't easy for Felicia to trust, especially after her husband, and for a man to wake up after being found in the backyard claiming for be a legend from the Dark Ages… there was just simply no way Felicia was going to believe that. Not without rock hard proof first, anyways. Megan sighed again, knowing that was what she was going to have to do. Because even though Felicia wouldn't be out right rude to Lancelot, she wouldn't be warm and welcoming either.

She ran a hand through her hair, and looked down at the dog as he whined, resting his chin and paw on her thigh. She smiled softly, whispered, "You like him, don't you?" He lifted his head, barked, and wagged his tail. Megan laughed. "Shhh, everyone's in bed." Then she looked at the clock, groaned, and stood up. "Which is where we ought to be. Come on, Barney."

She left the kitchen, Barney on her heels, and a certain dark-haired, dark-eyed knight on her mind. And as she curled up under her covers, falling asleep almost instantly with Barney a warmth against her stomach, her dark knight followed her in her dreams.

* * *

_A/N- Okay, if you don't like this chapter, that's fair because I don't either. I kept wanting to write from Lancelot's prospective, and it just wasn't working for me. However, it was either produce this, or what until my muse was working properly which could take a while. Thus, I figured a crappy chapter was better than no chapter at all… As always, forgive any remaining typos. Anyways, review if you read please. Suggestions and whatnot welcomed. _

_Lancelot's Love: Yeah, at first I wasn't going to approach the language issue at all, but it kept bugging me and I didn't feel like going back and trying to add it in. Thus, I just came up with a new idea. It personally works for me. Anyways, thank you for the review. Much appreciated. _

_SatiricalPhilosophy_


	6. Chapter Five

_Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all the original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic._

Pulse: The Future

Chapter Five

Sunday.

It was Sunday, Megan had told him. Three days since he had woken up to find himself in this strange new world. It had been three days, and still neither Megan nor Lancelot was any closer to coming up with an explanation as to why he was there or how it had occurred. It was frustrating, but Megan constantly reassured him that everything would be okay, that they would figure it out. He couldn't help but wonder when that would be, and slowly loosing patience. He could only wonder how he would be in a week's time if nothing were found, if already he was impatient and thoroughly frustrated after only three simple days.

He wasn't sure, but he was hoping they had figured something out by then or he was able to adjust, at least enough.

Megan already had told him she would consult her scholar friend, and ask his opinion on the matter. She had told him she had tried "calling" him while she had been at work Friday, but he hadn't been in. Thus, she had said she would try calling his home again over the weekend, knowing he liked to spend his times on the weekends with his Setters, or hunting dogs, Megan had informed him. Lancelot honestly wasn't sure how much use calling the old man would do. Like Felicia, Megan's sister, it was all too likely for the man to think Lancelot a madman, and Megan foolish for believing him. He had heard some of the conversations passed between the dark-haired woman and her sister, and knew that that was exactly what the fair-haired woman thought, warning Megan to just be cautious and weary.

It made him almost angry—if not fully angry—to think Felicia would honestly think he would hurt Megan—or even herself or the child, all harmless civilians, and more importantly women and a child. However, he also thought Felicia justified and wise, while Megan… kind and all too trustworthy, knowing Felicia's worries and fears could have been all too real if it had been anyone else but Lancelot in the situation. And that worried him as well, to think Megan's near naivety could some day be the reason for harm to befall her. While he didn't think she should become jaded or untrustworthy to all or ward off all people, he did think she needed to be more careful, and not automatically assume the best in others, because he knew—as well as Felicia—that not everyone was good, but would all too willingly exploit Megan's weakness.

_A weakness that is the reason you are safe and sheltered and receiving help_.

He would definitely have to talk to Megan, because perhaps if two people warned her of the dangers of trusty _everyone_, the concept would sink into her stubborn mind better. He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his face with his hands, weary. Always weary it seemed, never rejuvenated. It was from everything that had happened, no doubt, though the nightmares weren't helping either. Nightmares full of beasts and war and blood—so much blood—and blurry faces he couldn't make out. The worst part, however, was the screams. Tortured and begging for help—his help—but he couldn't do anything, only stand back, watching the flames and the whips and the weapons rain down…

He never understood them, could never see anything clearly except his own bloodied face and body, but always woke up terrified and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He assumed though, they were just post-traumatic nightmares from everything… It wasn't unusual for him to have nightmares, though over the long years they had been seldom as he grew older, numb and war-weary, too used to battles and loss to truly be affected.

The last time he had truly had a terrifying nightmare was after his first real battle, after he had watched his brothers in arms, his friends that he had created a bond with through his and their training, slaughtered—after he had slaughtered, killing men and a boy younger than he had been. The boy was the one that stuck out in his mind, even now that still haunted him, the boy and his five-year-old sister that the boy had been protecting, crying over her brother's body before a Roman officer had seized her and dragged her away, kicking and screaming until one had silenced her… and he had done nothing but watch, a steady hate slowly growing in him. Even now he wondered what had happened to the child, what fate had befallen her. No doubt she had been enslaved by the Romans, a slave of some sort even now if she wasn't even still alive, and he wondered if she hated him. Did she curse his very existence, hate him more than even the Romans, for it was his fault that she had been forced into that life? It had been him to slew her brother when all he had been doing was protecting her, not apart of the war party that had attacked the knights and Roman caravan…. And Lancelot hadn't realized it until too late…

The girl's hate was nothing compared to his own…

"You're Lancelot." Lancelot jerked his head up swiftly, looking up at the child that had managed to sneak up on him with steely eyes, body tense and ready to spring. Realizing there was no threat, he relaxed, nodding. "Mommy doesn't believe you. She thinks you're lying, are you?"

Such straightforwardness—something everything child possessed, Lancelot thought, thinking back to all of Bors' and Vanora's children fondly. This child, however… "No, I am not."

Aiden walked forward, stopping when there was only a few feet between them, a fuzzy toy bear clutched under his arm. "Megan doesn't think so either. She trusts you; Mommy doesn't think she should."

"Your mother… she doesn't trust easy, does she?" Aiden only looked at him, Lancelot's lips quirked slightly, not in a happy way, though. "No, and she's wise to do so. She only wishes to look out for you and her sister. But I assure you, child, my intentions are not to cause your aunt harm."

"I didn't think you would… Megan doesn't either…"

"Your aunt's a kind woman. I am grateful for her help."

Aiden looked at him for a second longer, before saying quietly, "You see things in your sleep, don't you? Bad things… I do, too… Mommy told me after we got away that they would stop, but they haven't… I still see him…"

Lancelot's bow furrowed, and looking at the pale child with wide, frightened eyes, he felt a chill, a sense that something wasn't right. The Stratfords had a secret, one that still affected the child, and whatever it was, it was not good and didn't set well with him. What _was_ it, though?

"Who do you see?" Lancelot asked intently, bending forward.

Aiden's eyes, if possible, grew wider, more afraid, and he swallowed, shaking his head, pallor nearly translucent. "Mommy said not to talk about it—that it makes it real when it's mentioned."

"Aiden—"

"Aiden."

Both child and knight looked up when Megan and an unhappy looking Felicia walked in the room. It had been Felicia that had spoken, and it was Felicia that was near glaring at Lancelot now, while Megan stood back looking almost apprehensive. Yes, something definitely about the Stratfords was not right, and whatever Aiden had nearly told him about, was the root to the secret. And Lancelot intended to find out exactly what it was they didn't want anyone to know, despite how much they didn't want him to know.

"Aiden, why don't you go play," Felicia suggested, and Aiden went, a thick tension snapping around the periwinkle-colored living room like a whip.

Felicia, Lancelot was sure, was going to say something to him, but Megan touched her arm, shook her head, and Felicia gave one last "look" at the knight before turning and exiting the room. It left him alone with Megan, who stood back against the polished wooden frame of the living room and main hall entrance/exit. She still had that same near apprehension look on her face, and Lancelot wondered, again, what it was the Stratford sisters were hiding, and if Megan would give him some warning or reprimand-like speech.

"Something ails the child." Lancelot was the one to break the silence, causing Megan to look up at him; gray-blue eyes careful.

"Lancelot," Megan began, and Lancelot knew, as much as she was trusting him, she would not entrust in him their secret, whatever it may have been.

"Megan, there is something wrong with your nephew, something—"

"Aiden's sick, Lancelot," she interrupted him, her voice conveying everything and nothing, and breaking his focus on their secret.

His brow furrowed, and he asked, "What?"

Megan sighed, repeated, "Aiden's sick. The doctors, they don't know what's wrong with him. It's bad, though… Fel and I… any moment we're prepared for him to collapse."

Lancelot swallowed, looking at her with dark eyes. He was sick? But… It didn't make sense… Didn't coincide with what the child had told him… But perhaps it was just a symptom of whatever illness Aiden was inflicted with. Megan herself had said the healers knew not what ailed him, that it was a mystery. Maybe nightmares were a part of it, but still…

"I am sorry… It… it must be difficult."

She breathed in deeply, averting his gaze from his. He watched her as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, and said softly, "Yeah… Especially on Felicia. I mean that's her kid, and… we don't know what's wrong with him, but… whatever it is, it's killing him, Lancelot. The doctors don't expect him to make it to his fifteenth birthday… hell, he'll be lucky if he makes it to his twelfth…"

Lancelot got up from his seat, walking over to the young woman. She only looked at him when he stood directly in front of her, wanting to touch her but not knowing if she would accept it. For where she was welcoming to friendship, he didn't know if she welcomed physical or emotional comfort and support. The look in her eyes, however, was neither welcoming nor unwelcoming, just… there… looking up at him, watching his next action carefully. He took the gamble though, reaching up, and, almost hesitantly, touched her cloth-clad bicep with his warm, large hand.

She didn't shrug him off, didn't do anything. A good thing. "I am sorry," he said sincerely, dark, soulful eyes showing her it to be truth.

She smiled slightly, not really a happy thing. "I know."

"I shou—"

She touched his arm, the warmth from her small palm spreading heat up his arm. "It's okay, Lancelot. You didn't know; you couldn't have. We didn't tell you; it's not something we broadcast. Don't worry about it."

Then she extracted herself from him, and walked past him, sitting on the couch, making him feel cold from the sudden lack of warmth—her warmth. He turned, looked at her, and she patted the seat beside of her beckoningly. He complied, walking over and sitting next to her.

"So, I still haven't gotten in touch with Professor Brinkley, yet. I'll try tomorrow on my planning period," Megan told him.

Lancelot was watching her, brow knitted together in the faintest of ways. His thoughts were still on Aiden and the two sisters. Something still struck an ill cord within him; they were still hiding something, he knew it. And though it may very well have something to do with Aiden's regrettable illness, he knew there was more to it. There was something else that the sisters did not want him, or anyone else apparently, to know. The "what" still mystified him, and he barely realized he seemed to now be more focused on that than why or how he was in the twenty-first century. All the better, he supposed; he was more likely to find out the reason for the Stratford sisters' secrecy than his actual reason for being here, or his purpose, if he even _had_ a purpose to begin with.

"Hell-o, Lancelot, anyone in there?" Megan snapped her fingers, and Lancelot blinked, looking at her. She was giving him a bemused look, eyebrow raised. "And what has captured your attention so completely, Sir Knight?" she jested.

It had the desired effect, a familiar smirk pulling at Lancelot's lips in amusement and… something else. "Nothing but you, beautiful maiden. I find myself enraptured by your _exquisite_ beauty."

Eyes sparkling, Megan continued their game, replying, "You jest, Sir Knight."

Lancelot leaned toward her, the sudden lightheartedness in their current antics welcomed after all the frustration and seriousness of the past three days. "I speak only of truth. A beauty like none other, pure and majestic," he whispered. "Rare. A rare beauty I have never seen; like a rare gem I wish to obtain…"

And then Megan barked out a laugh, all of it too much for her. Her laughter calmed after a few minutes, but her eyes were still gleaming with her merriment. And Lancelot smiled, watching her with… an almost soft expression, the sudden change of mood taking full affect of him as he truly watched her, studied her…wanting to touch her. Megan snorted, shaking her head, the waved tresses falling over her shoulders.

"A rare beauty?" she teased. "And how many girls, Sir Lancelot, have fell for that one?"

"I have never told another such words… similar words, yes, I will not deny it; but none holding such truth." He picked up her hand, bestowing upon it the lightest of kisses, lingering for a second or two longer than necessary. "For you are such a beauty, my lady. Your kindness helps make you so."

The smile was gone, and she was watching Lancelot with wide eyes, not knowing what to say or do. She retracted her hand, and he let her, moving back so as not to crowd her or scare her away. The full weight of what he had said finally registered through whatever fog had clouded his mind, and he almost nearly wished he could take his words and actions back. Not because he had not meant them, but because he wished to not complicate all ready complicated matters further. And he was sure Felicia would only see such actions as untrustworthy and a means to selfish, dark seduction, nothing true.

However, luckily for him, Megan chose to take light of his words, saying teasingly, "Aren't you sweet. Keep saying things like that, and I'll start to think you're trying to woo me." She winked, gently slapped his knee, and stood up. "I'm going outside to play with the dogs a bit, walk them. Want to join me? It's really beautiful on the path, quiet too for thinking."

"I would hate to impose."

Megan rolled her eyes, standing up, and looking back at Lancelot. "You won't. You only impose if I don't ask you." She reached for his hand, clasping it in her smaller one, and dragging him up, pulling him out of the living room. "Come on."

And who was he to deny a beautiful, kind lady a request?

He let her pull him out of the house, through the gate and into the backyard where immediately she started romping around the yard with the Ruddy the "Tibbie" and Barney the Golden Retriever. He watched her from a distance as she played with her two dogs, the breeze blowing coolly and ruffling her hair. He watched her, noticing the look in her eyes when she looked at the larger, older dog. He was her favorite, the one she loved the most, and the one that held a special place in her heart. No doubt she loved the little dog as well, Ruddy, but the older dog came first—Lancelot could see it, and why he was taking the time to note this, he wasn't rightly sure, but he was. Though his contemplation was cut short when Megan yelled his name, grabbing his attention, and tilting her head in a "come on" fashion, eyes dancing, smile in place.

And he went, letting the dogs jump and lick over him, as he played with them and the young woman, until Megan grew tired and sprawled out on the cool grass. She was laughing, throwing a ball far so the dogs would chase it, and then he sat on the grass with her, watching the dogs engage playfully, yipping and barking, and the current woes of his life was forced to the back of his mind for later. Now was a time of relaxation and lightheartedness, and he would use it to its fullest.

"I'll be gone until three-thirty tomorrow, think you'll be okay until I get home?" Megan asked, and Lancelot looked at her.

"Aye," he replied. "I will be fine."

Megan nodded, closing her eyes. "Good. It'll be like that the rest of the week, too. Friday, the kids and students have off, so…" Megan trailed off, and Lancelot draped his arms around his knees. Far off the dogs were barking, and Megan raised herself up a little to look, frowning. She groaned, and looked at Lancelot. "Do me a favor and see what they're up to? I'm comfortable."

Lancelot smiled, rolled his eyes, and pushed her back as he got to his feet. She laughed, shouting a indignant "Hey!" but Lancelot only raised a mock condescending eyebrow at her, and continued down the yard to where the dogs were. He found them easily enough, barking and sniffing at something hanging from the links on the fence. They licked and whined at him when he approached; used to him already, but when Lancelot saw what it was that hung from the links a frown its way upon his face, creasing it. A skinned and mutilated rabbit hung tied from the wire, sliced from stomach to chin, its entrails and other bodily organs gathered below it and dangling out of its gutted body. What in hells name…?

He went to remove it, but a sudden scream stopped him, and his blood ran cold. _Megan_. He turned and sprinted back, seeing a man behind her, almost pushing himself on top of her on the ground, arm around her throat as she tried to lessen the man's grip. Rage seized him, and he charged, not caring that he was weaponless. Almost upon him, Megan's attacker looked up, expression startled and one of shock, obviously not expecting a dangerous and angry looking man to be at the Stratford residence. However, Lancelot didn't give him time to process his sudden appearance, pulling him away from Megan in his still startled stage, his hold on her having been slacked immensely, and throwing a punch at him—hard. And then he attacked, and the battle commenced, one thought flittering through Lancelot's mind…

Kill.

* * *

_A/N—A little lighthearted Megan and Lancelot interaction to get away from all the seriousness—always a good thing. But the plot thickens… goodie… Also, I knew its short, but shorter chapters generally mean sooner chapters. Hope no one minds. Forgive for the typos, couldn't stay focused for some odd reason. Anyways, questions welcomed, as are suggestions and all that good stuff. You know the deal._

_Lancelot's Lady: Yeah, Megan's POV is easier to write, only because for one, she's my characters and not someone else's; and two, from Lancelot's I have to try to capture his thoughts on a strange, new world with equally strange devices. It can be difficult because I'll write what it actually is until I realize someone from the Dark Ages wouldn't. And I'm with you with the history thing. I'll be majoring in history, so it's important to me. Granted, I don't get everything (or even nearly everything right, lol), but what I can, I wil, or at least I'll try. Else it will bug me. So if you see anything wrong, just drop me a line and let me know, and I'll try to fix it. Obviously not everything can be historically accurate, though, huh? Anyways, thank you immensely for the review. As always, I enjoy hearing from you. _

_SatiricalPhilosophy _


	7. Chapter Six

_Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all the original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic._

Pulse: The Future

Chapter Six

Shock.

It coursed through her as she blinked, trying to figure out just exactly what was happening. First, she had just been lounging on the grass, waiting for Lancelot to come back, then someone had come up and grabbed her, startling her and making her cry out, and then, before she could even really get a grasp on things, Lancelot had suddenly appeared, and pulled him off of her before promptly attacking him. And now, Megan watched as Lancelot pummeled and fought with the man below him who just so happened to be—

_Shit! _

Megan's eyes widened, her mouth opening in shock, before she pushed herself to her feet, and rushed forward, stopping a little ways away from Lancelot and Tom so as not to accidentally get caught in the fray.

"Lancelot, stop!" she screamed, but Lancelot seemed not to hear her, too enraged as he wailed on Tom, not that Tom wasn't fighting back, because he was… He was just losing.

She yelled again, and when her cry of urgency still failed to reach Lancelot, she cursed and did the only thing left to do. Carefully she went up to the two fighting men, hesitating while thinking she was a complete idiot, but knowing she had to before Tom ended up in the morgue, and touched Lancelot's shoulder, yelling his name at the same time. And for one split second when he turned, she thought he would attack her, his eyes blazing and more alive than she had ever seen them. Then, in an even quicker second, recognition dawned on him, and Tom punched him in the jaw—hard. It got him off of Tom, but didn't seem to faze him, and Megan saw Lancelot about to lunge again, and quickly placed herself in the middle, yelling at them to stop.

Tom listened, though grudgingly and probably because he'd have to hit Megan to get to Lancelot, glaring and bleeding, but retaining his distance, though Megan knew he wanted to have a go at Lancelot. As for the latter… His muscles were taunt and tight and ready for action beneath her hands as she pushed against his chest, yelling at him to stop. A murderous look filled his eyes, and she wondered if her words were even fazing him, half tempted to smack him to see if that would work, but thought better of it, afraid he would turn on her before he realized it.

"Lancelot, stop! Just stop! Both you!" she shouted again, and she heard Felicia coming out the door, asking what the hell was going on. Megan didn't answer, busy with Lancelot. She grabbed his cheek and chin in a firm hand, and, with difficulty, yanked so he was forced to look at her, though he was trying his best to glare murderously at Tom. She gave him a small shake, voice firm as she said, "Lancelot, listen to me. Stop. He's friend. Just _stop—_calm down."

"What the hell happened?" she heard Felicia question, but whether to her or Tom she didn't know, wasn't paying attention. She was completely focused on Lancelot, knowing he wasn't placated yet—far from it, and would attack as soon as he could.

His eyes were glued to her as she held him in firm hands, fierce and fiery and hateful and utterly cold. She'd never seen such a look, and hoped that Lancelot never directed it or his rage toward her, because the small portion she had seen just a minute ago had been enough.

"He's a friend, Lancelot. Just calm down, okay?"

Lancelot swallowed. "He attacked you."

Megan shook her head. "No, he didn't. He's a friend. Tom wouldn't ever hurt me. Trust me. Do you trust me?"

His jaw clenched, and Megan waited with almost abated breath for his answer. _Did _he trust her? If the situation weren't as it was, she'd almost be surprised how much his answer meant to her. She wanted him to trust her, truly and honestly wanted and hoped he trusted her. She trusted him, though some people would argue that wasn't such a surprise—she tended to trust a lot of people, so her trust wasn't the biggest of deals. But did he, a battle-weary, war-hardened knight trust her? Gray-blue on dark brown, intense and waiting… hoping and searching.

"Yes."

She almost breathed out in relief, and stifled a smile, instead saying, "Then trust me, okay? And calm down. Can you do that?"

Lancelot clenched his fist, and she knew that he really, _really_ didn't want to. He wanted to go over there to Tom and finish what he had started, but for her sake, she knew, he wouldn't. He would try to be civil and compliant, for however long he was capable of. And he did. His hard muscles were still taunt and ready to spring into violent action under her soft hands, but one small move and he stood down, and she could breathe easily again—or at least _easier_, because she didn't know how long it would be before Lancelot tried to kill Tom again, _if_ he did. Though knowing Tom, the moron would say something that would set Lancelot off. He was good at that; always had been.

Definitely wasn't one of Tom's finer points.

Megan glanced over her shoulder to assess the situation. Felicia had taken Tom a ways away, far enough that he was out of earshot without yelling, which was good. It would keep him from saying anything snide or anything that would set the knight off again, and vice versa. Even from the distance, though, Megan could see the blood on him—his nose was gushing the dark crimson liquid, as was his lip. His usually handsome face was starting to bruise, and she could make out a bloody cut above his eye. The thick, gray wool turtleneck sweater hugging his broad shoulders was covered splatters of blood as well, and Megan was sure that the only thing that didn't have blood on it was his pants and his dark, brown-auburn hair.

Looking back at Lancelot, however, there was barely a scratch on him. In fact, the worst Tom had probably done the entire duration of the fight was when he hit Lancelot when she had been trying to get him away from Tom, and that left only a cut on his jaw from the big class ring Tom always wore. She doubted he would bruise, and if he did, then not much. But she assumed fighting for your life probably every other day, if not _everyday _made a person tough… like Lancelot. Thinking upon that, good thing she _had_ pulled Lancelot away—a veteran knight fighting a high school biology teacher/part time "lumberjack" whose only experience in fighting were in controlled settings and the occasional brawl with peers when he was in high school or at the bar.

Yeah, it had definitely been a losing fight—for Tom that is.

Megan sighed, running a hand through her hair. Though she could probably guess the answer, she asked anyways. "Are you okay?"

"You ask if I am okay when I have just attacked your supposed friend." He almost lifted a brow, but was still too stony and angry for much facial expression yet.

Megan shrugged. "Yeah… Apparently you were just trying to protect me. I can hardly be angry for that."

"I saw him, and thought he was attacking you. I didn't think, only wanted to protect you and to kill him."

She looked at him intently, studying him almost. "And you would have, wouldn't you?"

Face blank, eyes cold. "Yes." It was the truth. She had known it all along.

She sighed, reached out and gave his hand a little squeeze. "Come on, I'll introduce you. And if he says anything, just ignore him, okay?"

"I won't promise you anything I can not keep."

She sighed again, said, "Okay, good enough. Come on. Are you sure you're okay, though?"

Lancelot raised an eyebrow in a "you're seriously asking that" way, and said, "I've fought countless of battles, have received wounds that could have been fatal. That _boy_ could not have hurt me if he tried."

And apparently manly egotism was still very much alive in the Dark Ages as it was in the twenty-first century.

Men.

"Well, that _boy_ is the same age as my sister, maybe you as well… or what you would be… if you were, you know, from the twenty-first century, and all. "

Lancelot snorted. "Age matters not in battle, Megan. Armies recruit children if their need is desperate enough, perhaps even when it is not—you do not need to be a certain age before you can kill."

Megan looked up at him, swallowed, brow furrowed slightly. His words chilled her for some reason, and she found herself asking, "How old were you?"

A moments pause, then: "Fifteen when the Romans came, and took me from my homeland to fight for a cause not my own, nor any other knights'."

She stared up at him, he down at her, and didn't know what to say. Fifteen? He had only been fifteen when he was pushed into a life apparently he had never wanted, fifteen when he first had to kill a human being to survive. Only fifteen when he was taken from his family… Dear God… She couldn't imagine it. _Fifteen_. Oh, she could imagine it for that period in history, but she wasn't thinking about that right now, only thinking… Fifteen… She couldn't imagine being ripped away from her family at the age of fifteen. Even now with her mother sick in a nursing home, and her father there with her, helping take care of her even when a lot of the time she didn't even remember him, it was hard. Her family was the most important thing to her, and to imagine ever being ripped away from them… especially at the young age of fifteen… It was impossible to imagine, especially if she had been forced to endure the horrors and the hardship Lancelot had been forced to live…

Lancelot touched her cheek lightly, said, "Do not pity me."

Megan shook her head slightly, slowly, said softly, "I don't pity you."

He pushed a lock of hair back from her face, responded with, "No, but your heart bleeds for me. I can see it in your eyes… They show what you are thinking, what you feel…"

Megan didn't say anything, only continued to look him. She didn't know what to say, and he didn't want her to pity him. However, she didn't pity him. She did, however… "I'm sorry."

It was his turn to squeeze her hand, which he did, and she returned the pressure. "Don't be. It—"

"Hope we're not interrupting anything."

It was angry and biting and full of… something… It successfully broke the moment, though, and had Lancelot glaring hatefully at Tom. Apparently, while Megan and Lancelot had been busy chatting, Felicia had been tending to Tom, cleaning him up and assessing him for damage. Nothing too bad, probably a broken nose judging by the way it looked and the way Felicia had doctored it up. Nothing time would heal—good thing they hadn't been fighting longer than they had. Or better yet, good thing Lancelot hadn't hit him any longer or any more than he had.

"Not at all," Megan said pleasantly, trying to keep the peace and hoping it would hold. She could feel the tension tight in the air, and feel the thick animosity surging between the two men—almost electric. Felicia stood back a little ways, safe if Tom and Lancelot decided to start brawling again. "Maybe we should all go in, and—"

"Why did you come here?" Lancelot demanded, and Tom's eyes widened in outrage and shock. Great, they weren't going to play nice.

Tom's green eyes were blazing with anger; he always had been hotheaded, why should now have been different. It shouldn't, of course; Megan was almost tempted to roll her eyes in annoyance, but kept calm. If she could deal with teenagers and pre-teens all day, five days a week, then she could deal with two grown men with nasty tempers. It was Fel that was the impatient, temperamental one, not her. Even now, looking at her sister, Megan could tell she was _extremely _displeased about the situation. Joy.

"Why did I come here? I'm a damn friend. Now, just who the hell are you? No one I know," Tom growled out.

Lancelot glared at him coldly. "That's not of any importance."

Tom's green eyes sparked, and Megan sighed, looking heavenward. "The hell it isn't. I want to know who the hell you are and why the hell you're here in Megan's house. She doesn't let men stay at her house, let alone strangers."

Lancelot raised an eyebrow, almost condescendingly. Megan looked at her sister, and Felicia gave her a look, asking just who was in charge here. Megan sighed, and before anything else could be said, jumped in, exclaiming loudly, "Okay, people, you know what, this is my house, and I can let whoever I want stay in it, so just be quiet!"

They listened, and she breathed in deeply. Good. Much better. "Now, Tom, this is Lancelot. He's an… uh, old friend. He's staying with Fel and I for a while—ahh, quiet." And she gave Tom a stern glare, effectively shutting him up. "Lancelot, this is Tom Hanover. Say hi."

Of course, he didn't, but they weren't yelling at each other anymore, so it was okay. Except Tom had to open his mouth, and sneer, "Lancelot? Are—"

"Tom," Megan interrupted. "Don't antagonize him, or next time I probably won't be able to get him off you, okay?" Tom glared, sniffed, and Megan turned to Lancelot. "And you're going to play nice as well, correct?" Lancelot frowned, clearly not happen. "Good, now, everyone go into the house, and we can try to have a _civilized_ conversation."

Megan met Felicia's eyes. "I'll get coffee or something started."

Megan nodded in thanks, and then began to usher everyone in—Tom after Felicia, then her in between Tom and Lancelot, with Lancelot bring up the rear. Megan rubbed her head, a headache forming. She was about to go inside when she noticed Lancelot had stopped, and looked back at him. Tom stopped as well, and looked back from inside the doorway. Megan looked at Lancelot questionably, wondering what was wrong now.

"Lancelot…?"

"Go on in. I will follow shortly. There is something I must do first?"

Again with Megan's questioning, confused look. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait."

"Um, no. It must be done now. Besides, what of your dogs? Do you not want them in? I will go and fetch them."

"Yeah, you do that," Tom sneered.

Megan sent him a glare, and then looked back at Lancelot. "The dogs will be fine. They probably want to play for a bit anyways."

"I will be in shortly. I promise." He was unrelenting, and Megan frowned, wondering…

"Okay, then… Do you want me to come?"

Lancelot sent her a tense, reassuring smile that was half sneer as he said, "No, go and entertain your guest." And anyone could tell Lancelot hated Tom.

Megan's frowned deepened, but finally, slowly, she agreed. She turned and started in the house, watching as Lancelot went down the yard where he had went to check on the dogs earlier before the Tom incident. Hmm, something was up. She would have to ask him about it later, but for now she had other matters to attend. Matters such as the twenty-eight-year-old male she was walking into her kitchen with, and that was still bristling with anger.

"I don't like him, whoever is he," was the first thing Tom said when the kitchen door closed.

Megan sighed exasperatedly, rolled eyes, and said, "His name is Lancelot. He's a good guy."

Tom's face was hard and unrelenting. "I don't like him. He seems too shady."

Megan looked at him with annoyance, and said, "Shady? Tom, you don't like him because you just got your ass handed down to you by him. That's why you don't like him."

"Bullshit. Do you even know the guy?"

She sent him a "look." "Of course I do. I told you he's an old friend come to stay with Fel and I awhile." So she lied a little, what was she supposed to do, though? Tell him the truth? Oh, yes, she could see that going over _so_ well. _"No, Tom, actually Lancelot is a knight of the Round Table from the Dark Ages, under King Arthur's command. He landed in my back yard a couple of weeks ago, and now we're trying to find out why and how to get him back."_ Oh, yeah, that would go over wonderfully.

"And is that _all_ he is. An "old friend?""

Megan sent him a scathing look, not liking what he was implying. That was positively ridiculous for so many reasons, and just the fact that Tom had implied it. It irked her, pulled on the right strings to get her annoyed very fast. "Don't even think about implying what I think you're implying, Thomas Hanover. Why do you even care, anyways?"

Tom made a noise in the back of his throat. "Gee, I don't know, maybe because I know you don't let men stay with you. You never had. You sure as hell didn't with us, or has things suddenly changed and I just not realize it?"

Now, she really was annoyed. "I can't believe you. Is this what this is all about? Jealousy? I can't believe that." He glared, and she scoffed. "For Christ sakes, Tom…" And she trailed off, breathing deeply to get her calm back and her annoyance under control. "Tom, why exactly are you here?"

"You never called me back when I called Thursday, and I got worried."

Megan raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that you called."

"Yeah, Felicia answered, said she would relay the message."

Megan glanced at Felicia who was staying well out of their little spat. Felicia shrugged. "I must have forgotten with… all the excitement going on." Megan knew what she meant, but it had Tom narrowing his eyes suspiciously, looking from her and then Megan.

"See, there you have it. And why didn't you just talk to me at the school if you were so worried?"

Tom frowned. "I took a personal day Friday; you were probably too busy to notice, though. With your little friend and all."

Megan narrowed her eyes, and retorted, "Are you sure you weren't just looking for a reason to come here?"

Tom looked at her frostily, said, "I wasn't aware that I needed a "reason" to come see you, Megan. Guess I was wrong." And then he stomped past her, going out the door, and slamming it.

Megan sighed loudly, and looked skyward—wonderful. She got up and rushed after him, calling out, "Tom, wait!" But he didn't listen, only stalked out of her backyard, and disappeared out of sight. Seconds later she could hear him starting the class mustang he had restored, and spinning out of her yard. She let her head drop back, and she cursed silently—herself and Tom. She sighed, resolving to apologize tomorrow at work. Tom was hothead with a bad temper, but with a better situation and circumstances, he should be willing to forgive her. At least she hoped so; Tom was a good friend, and one she wasn't willing to loose over some stupid misunderstanding and dispute.

"Your friend left?"

Megan turned, and looked at Lancelot. He stood near the kitchen door, and she was pretty sure he had probably listened to most of the fight. She nodded, though, saying, "Yeah."

Lancelot nodded, was a silent for a second, and then said to her, "Because of me?"

Megan shrugged, walking back over to him. "Partly. Most of it was me, though, so don't worry about it." Not that she really thought he would. He was probably happy Tom was gone.

Honestly, men.

"What happened, if I am not prying?"

Megan shook her head, and smiled slightly. "Don't play dumb. I'm sure you heard the entire thing." And she smirked up at him.

Lancelot, she could tell, restrained a smirk, and said, "But you are wrong, lady. I did not hear all of it, only part of it."

Megan snorted. "Smartass. Come on." She dragged him into the house, asking, "I take it you finished whatever it was that you needed to do?"

"Aye," he replied, and sat down at the table with Megan. The coffee was finished, and Felicia had left the room. They were alone once again.

"What exactly did you have to do anyways?"

Lancelot shook his head. "Nothing important." And she knew he was deliberately not telling her. She frowned, went to ask again, but he beat her, saying, "Do not fret, Megan, it was nothing to concern yourself over. Trust me." And she looked at him, in his eyes, and slowly nodded.

Trust.

If he said to trust him, then she would—she did. He had proven to her today that he would protect her if he thought she was in harm, even if it meant murder. She wondered if he even considered it murder, killing for survival. Was that even what it truly was? She wasn't quite sure. Maybe she should just consider it self-defense and leave it at that, but was self-defense still murder? You could get charged for manslaughter for it, so…

"What thoughts have you so thoroughly absorbed?" he asked, causing her to glance up at him.

Could she tell him? Or would that offend him. She shook her head, finally settling for, "Just thinking what you told me out there."

Nothing else needed to be said; he knew exactly what she meant. He drew in a breath, and sat back, looking away from her and at nothing, thinking—remembering.

"I promised her I would return, promised them all I would when the Romans came. Fifteen years, I served, waiting for the day I would be able to fulfill my promise, and then…" He looked at her, and smiled, but it wasn't a happy or good thing. "I told Arthur before we left to bring Marius and his family to the Wall before the Saxons could reach them, that I would die in battle, and that I hoped it would be one of my choosing… And I did… against the Saxons. They came, and we fought, and I died a free man, but I never fulfilled my promise. Never went back."

Megan swallowed, and Lancelot smiled that smile of his again. "Lancelot…" Her voice was soft. What could she say? The man had obviously experienced more heartache than anyone ever should, more than she had, and she obviously didn't know how he felt or anything else, so what could she possibly say to console him? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But maybe words weren't the answer to this particular equation, just maybe, and she prayed he didn't reject her as she reached across the table and grasped his hand in her smaller one. And then, after a moment, he closed his hand around hers, held on tightly.

She swallowed hard, and a determination, a deep resolve settled in her, and she said, softly, but with conviction, "I'm going to find a way to get you back, Lancelot. And you _will_ see you family again… I promise."

And he just smiled, a bitter, utterly heartbreaking smile that made her hurt. He tightened his hold on her hand, brought it up, and placed a gently kiss on her knuckles. Then he said, "Thank you, but do not promise things you cannot possibly give." And he tightened his hold on her hand, and looked out the window on the kitchen door, and they sat there, in silence, letting their thoughts drift.

* * *

_A/N—Yeah, so Megan wasn't in any actual danger, but that's how it was planned all along from the beginning. That's not to say there isn't danger to come… Not the best chapter, but a chapter, yeah? Anyways, review if you read, you know the rest. _

_Alex: Hey, thanks for the review. No cliffhanger in this one, and not sure if this was the exciting you were hoping for, but here it is—the next chapter. Enjoy. Thanks a bunch for the review. Always appreciated and loved._

_SatiricalPhilosophy _


	8. Chapter Seven

_Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all the original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic._

Pulse: The Future

Chapter Seven

It bothered him.

It had been deliberately placed there, and he knew it had been placed there so one of the girls, or even Aiden, would find it. Whoever had tied it to the fence hadn't meant for him to find it, probably didn't even know that he was staying with the Stratfords. What he couldn't figure out was why someone would do such a thing—kill, skin, mutilate, and then attach it to the fence so it would be found. He wasn't naïve, and was well accustomed to cruelty and just how far people would go; however, it just didn't add up. The Stratfords seemed like nice people, and seemed genuinely liked from what he had seen when Megan had taken him shopping a couple days ago.

And then, there was the character Tom who had coincidently just appeared seconds after he had found the rabbit, and was, according to him, just coming to see Megan and hadn't meant her any harm—had only been playing around. Still, something didn't set right with him. Just something about Tom…

And what of Aiden, Megan's sick nephew that was slowly but surly dying of some mysterious illness, and that had nightmares that he wasn't permitted to speak of because it made it "real." However, whatever it was that child dreamed, it was violent, and had some man that haunted him. Something else that was entirely too suspicious, especially with everything else that had happened recently—the strung up, tortured rabbit he had discarded, and Megan's alleged "friend."

It didn't set well with him, and he knew, without a doubt, that the Stratford sisters were, indeed, hiding something. It was just the "what" that was baffling him. Whatever it was, it gave Lancelot an eerie, ill feeling deep within him, and compelled him to figure it out before it was too late, whatever that meant. He wasn't sure, but he did not want to find out. He would just have to dig and find out all he could, not outright, of course, but he had to take on a more subtle approach. He would have to find out all he could of the Stratford sisters and of their relations, using the camouflage of mere curiosity and share with them as well. Possibly deceitful in their eyes, and especially Felicia's if she were to discover what he was up to, but it was much better than whatever possible alternative awaited ahead.

Therefore, he would have to share with them as well. First, however, he would have to figure out whom to focus his attention on first, and he all ready knew automatically. If he felt guilty for using Megan's trustworthiness, gullibility, naivety, and kindness against her and for his own gain, he pushed it aside; assuring himself that it was for her and her family's safety just as much as it was for his safety. And indeed it was, because whomever it had been that had left the dead rabbit tied outback, he or she had left it for a purpose: to make a statement. And it was neither a statement of goodwill nor was it directed toward him, and that put Megan in danger, which therefore put him into an ill state of unease.

However, Megan was not home at the moment. She was at work, teaching until three-thirty, and that left him agitated for different reasons. Also, it had him thinking, once again, about the many differences between this century and his century, and made him wonder if he would ever be able to adjust if they couldn't figure out how to get him back home. He was a knight with chivalry engrained into his very soul practically, and from what he had seen of this world and society and the roles of men and woman… chivalry was little more than dead, and that put him in an awkward position considering the obvious in his character and nature.

However, the twenty-first century was not important to him at the moment, and he had to stay focused. Since Megan was not home, and wouldn't be until the evening, that left him alone with Felicia and Aiden. Though Aiden, he was nearly positive, he could get more information out of, he knew he couldn't get anywhere near the child and ask him questions without alerting his mother and making her suspicious. Thus, that left Felicia as the only one he could talk to, and ask just for "curiosity's sake." However, Felicia neither liked him nor trusted him, and that made it a bit difficult, a bit risky for him to start his questioning. And so logically, the smart thing to do would be to wait until the younger Stratford sister returned home. However, Lancelot had never been much for patience, and now was no different.

The key was to seem like he was curious and genuinely interested for reasons that were the farthest away from diabolical, which they were. He was merely doing this for the safety of the Stratford family and himself, though he wasn't all that concerned about himself. He supposed it was partly due to fighting and risking his life for fifteen years…

Still thinking of the best way to go about collecting information from Felicia, he ambled through the house, a frown creasing his face when he entered the kitchen. He glanced up, spotted Felicia, and was not sure if he should go ahead and try to get her to open up, or if he should go back the way he had come and stew upon it some more. However, Felicia had all ready glanced up from the table where she was writing something on an odd piece of parchment, and was looking at Lancelot with a raised eyebrow.

After several seconds, Felicia asked, "Is there something you need?"

"No, I was merely—" and Felicia had all ready nodded her head and looked back down at whatever she had been down before Lancelot entered the room, dismissing him. Lancelot's frown deepened, annoyance flashing through him. Thinking fast, he said, "I would like to apology for how I acted with your friend the other day." Though he wasn't _actually_ sorry.

Felicia didn't look up at him, only continued to scribble on the rectangular piece of flimsy parchment. "According to Megan you thought he was attacking her. If that's true, then fine."

Lancelot held back the annoyed, frustrated sigh wanting to escape. Instead, he forced his calm to come back, a difficult feat, and reminded himself that Felicia didn't like him, and wasn't a trusting person. Perhaps something to do with whatever secret the sisters was safeguarding?

"Felicia, I know you neither trust me nor like my presence, and suspect me of diabolic ulterior motives toward your sister, but I have no intentions of hurting Megan—I never did and I never will, and everything I have ever said has been nothing but the truth."

Felicia had looked up at him when he persisted on talking to her, and said after he was finished, "That may be or not be so, Lancelot. Only time is going to tell, but _you_ just know that if you hurt my sister, you're going to regret it."

Lancelot accepted this, knowing that she wasn't going to budge on the matter. "It is a good thing that Megan has someone looking out for her like yourself." Felicia just glanced up at him again over the small-framed glasses; her eyes narrowed a fraction. "Were you so protective of her when Tom tried to befriend her, or is you're distrust solely for me?"

Felicia sighed, and he knew she was growing irritated with him—not surprising considering. "What do you think?"

Lancelot almost smirked, curbing it only because of Felicia. "How did the two of them meet anyways, if you do not mind my asking?" Just stay polite, and be genuinely curious, and perhaps she wouldn't tell him to go away and leave her alone.

Felicia leaned back in her chair, taking off her glasses and setting them on the table. "They met when she moved here after finishing college, at the school where she works."

"And do you trust him around her?"

Felicia raised an eyebrow. "He wouldn't hurt her. He loves her, that I _do_ know and trust."

Lancelot frowned. "And you believe him?"

"They were going to get married, Lancelot. It was Megan that called it off, and after a year and a half, he's still trying to get her back. Yeah, I believe him."

Lancelot brows lifted in shock and surprise at this revelation. Tom and Megan had been going to get married? They had been romantically involved, and Tom still loved her? Did Megan love him still, never mind she had been the one to call the wedding off? A feeling that was more than just resentment for the man over what had happened yesterday settled deep within him. He really did not like him.

But he wondered…

"Why did Megan call it off?" he asked.

"That's her business to tell, not mine. You'll have to ask her," she said, adding, "But it wasn't because she didn't love him, because she did. Tom just loved her more. Now, if you don't mind, I have bills to write out."

Lancelot frowned at what she had said about Megan and Tom, and turned to exit the kitchen to leave her in peace. However, he stopped before he exited the kitchen, and turned to look sidelong over his shoulder, saying, "I am sorry about your son."

Felicia stilled, and looked up, her eyes narrowed and hard as a sudden tension snapped across the room. "What do you know about my son?"

"Megan told me about his affliction—'tis tragic," he said, knowing this very well could blow up in his face and she could tell him to leave. It wouldn't matter that it was technically Megan's house. "He has also said he has nightmares—that he sees… terrible things."

"I know Megan trusts you and everything, but you were right when you said that I don't. Now, I can't tell you what to do concerning Megan because obviously she's going to do what she thinks is right, but stay the hell away from son. You don't know anything about us; you don't know anything about Aiden. So stay the hell away from him."

She was glaring at him, hard and cold, with an unspoken threat hanging on the air. He was well accustomed to mothers, having been around a very protective Vanora for years, and knew that a mother would do anything to protect her child. And given that these were woman from the twenty-first century… His own eyes were blank and hard, and he gave a curt node of understanding before exiting the room. He went up the stairs, down the hall, and entered the yellow bedroom Megan was letting him use, thinking back to the conversation he had just had with Megan's sister.

While he hadn't found out anything that put him anywhere closer to figuring out the puzzle, he did, in fact, find out some rather _interesting_ information concerning Megan. She had been betrothed once, and to the imbecile Tom no less. It would explain, though, much of the conversation he had overheard yesterday, and quite a bit of Tom's antipathy toward him. Jealousy. And it was only intensified when Lancelot had fought him, coming out the victor. He knew that if he had been trying to win back Megan's affections, came to her house, was attacked and found out it was by the same mysterious man she was harboring in her house, he would be thoroughly enraged. However, that didn't bring him anywhere closer to liking the man. However, he supposed, if what Felicia had said was true, then he could forget Tom having anything to do with the rabbit and the secret surrounding the Stratfords…

Unless, of course, he had done it out of enraged jealousy? It would fit. Megan didn't want him anymore, and he was trying to get her back, but was angry and jealous because Lancelot was there, and so therefore was looking for a way to get her back. But the secret… No, Tom Hanover could very much fit into that as well. Felicia had said Megan had cancelled the wedding because of a certain cause she couldn't mention, so perhaps… and Aiden had mentioned, when he had been speaking of the haunting nightmares, that he still saw "him." What if the him was actually Tom? Everything made sense… but it was just the exact what that kept eluding him. He had the main structure built, but the finer details kept escaping him.

He ran a hand through his dark curls, rested his elbows on his knees, and cupped his chin and face in his palms as he thought.

He knew he couldn't ask Felicia anything else, or try to worm information out of her anymore. It was clear to him she wouldn't be amicable about it, and wouldn't cooperate. That left only Megan and Aiden. He felt sure that he could worm something out of Megan; the whole truth… it was there his doubts started. It seemed, though Megan was better tempered and more open, that she was just as protective of whatever secret the sisters shared as Felicia was. He might be able to get the whole truth out of her in time, but he didn't think he had time, and that was a big if anyways. Thus, that only left one person.

Aiden.

Aiden was an eight-year-old child, and he knew, from experience, that eight-year-olds were very open, and very honest—most all small children were. They were better at keeping secrets at age eight, true, but they weren't _that_ good, at least most of them weren't. He would just have to be careful when he did—careful for different reasons, but the main one being Felicia. If she caught him around her son… there was no telling what she would do, but Lancelot knew that it would not be good. Also, he would have to be careful so Aiden didn't accidentally let anything slip to Felicia _or_ Megan. Because Megan may have been nice and kind and friendly and generally open to him, but he wasn't sure how far that would go if she found out what he was up to. Nor was he certain how she would react if he eventually had to come completely clean to her about what he was doing and what he suspected and everything else. Felicia—it easy enough to figure out. However, Megan…

He suspected she would be hurt, a feeling of betrayal settling deep within her. Felicia wouldn't be, only angry and probably murderous for him having hurt Megan (never mind it was unintentional), and, in her eyes, an endangerment to her child and unborn children. However, it wasn't Felicia that worried him… It was Megan, and the possible damage he could create if she found out. He wished not to hurt her, wanted that the least of anything… Thus, it was imperative that he be careful in his quest for the truth. So perhaps the main reason wasn't Felicia after all, but Megan…

He knew it wouldn't be _that_ hard to weasel the information out of Aiden, but if the child let something slip…

He sighed; it was something he didn't want to think about, because he knew he would more than likely lose Megan… There was a possibility that she would understand why he did/was doing what he was doing, but with Felicia at her side… he ran another hand through his hair.

Why couldn't he have just stayed dead?

* * *

_A/N- End chapter seven… nothing much happened, but it's still important… Anyways, thanks for the review feedback always appreciated. _

_SatiricalPhilosophy_


	9. Chapter Eight

_Disclaimer- King Arthur belongs to Antoine Fuqua, Jerry Bruckheimer Films, and Touchstone Pictures. I only own the story and all the original characters presented throughout the duration of this fic._

Pulse: The Future

Chapter Eight

The kids had kept her busy most of the morning; they had been particularly… rambunctious, and she hadn't been able to leave them alone to go apologize to Tom _or_ to call Professor Brinkley. She supposed it was because it was a Monday; the kids always had less than perfect behavior, a nice way of putting it, on Monday… or on Fridays, but she shook her head—that wasn't the point; today was, and she should stay focused. It wouldn't be good to do something she often called her kids upon when they were dazed and not paying attention or doing their work.

She looked at the clock—only five more minutes until her planning period, and then she could hopefully do what she needed to do, i.e. call Professor Brinkley and apologize to Tom. She sighed, leaning back in her chair and stretching, looking over at her students as they continued to read the assignment she had given them. Normally, she would have given them the last five minutes free, but with the way they had acted… That wasn't going to be happening today, especially not after she had had to yell at them. It was bad when she had to repeatedly call them down in a calm voice, but it was even worse when she yelled. She hardly yelled, or at least at her students, and they knew when she did it was smart if they listened and settled down.

_Sometime you just _have_to be the Wicked Witch,_ she thought just as the bell went off. She didn't say anything, still peeved at them, only watched them as they gathered their things and hurriedly left the room, talking in muffled voices. Apparently, they weren't comfortable talking in their "outside" voices until after they had left her classroom.

Good.

She stretched one last time before getting up out of her chair, walking around her desk, and picking up a piece of paper one of the students hadn't bothered to pick up. She shook her head, turned, and threw it away in the trashcan beside her large desk that was nice and tidy. Call her anal, but she couldn't stand being messy; it just drove her crazy, and constantly she had to clean up after her students. She loved each and every one of them, but after countless times telling them to put everything back nice and neat, and to pick up after themselves, she would have thought they would be capable of that. But then, she thought back to her years in high school and junior high, and thought of how she had been, as well as her other classmates. Pretty much the same as now…

She continued to straighten up around the classroom, contemplating randomly how it needed color to help make it feel homey or to liven it up. The school/subject-related posters and other assignments she had posted around the room just weren't really cutting it. Megan shook her, though, putting a final book in the large book shelve that spanned almost the entire back wall, and walked back up to the front of the room. She stood there for a minute; should she call Brinkley first or go to Tom? Brinkley, Tom, Brinkley Tom, Brinkley, Tom…?

"I should probably call Brinkley first. I know where I can find Tom," she muttered to herself, walked around and grabbed her beige tote bag, put her grading book and other such stuff into it, shouldered it, and walked out of her classroom, flicking the light off as she went. She went into the office first, telling them she'd be gone for a while to do something before her next class, and asked if they needed her for anything. When she had the go-ahead she walked out the school doors, making her way to Teacher Parking.

The school wasn't that big—only two floors (the second primarily used for the younger students, and the bottom primarily for the older kids), but long—so neither was the parking lot. In maybe less than a minute, she was at the Jeep Liberty, getting in and putting her stuff in the passenger side. She sighed, looking at it for a second. A few days ago, Lancelot had been sitting in that same seat. She made a bemused "hmm" sound, feeling a little alone for the first time in a long time. She shook her head. She was going crazy, had been since she found Lancelot and discovered he thought he was from the Dark Ages… and she believed him. What exactly did that say about her? She snorted—that she was crazy, or going crazy, though she thought she was probably all ready there given the obvious.

She shook her head, started the ignition, put it in reverse, turned to look behind her, and then pulled out, driving out of the parking lot. In all honesty, she really had nothing to do before her next class, only to call Brinkley, and she hadn't been about to do that at the school. There was no way she wanted any of the people there—or anyone at all really—to know what she was about to confess to Brinkley, or that she had a strange man living with her. If they didn't think she was all ready weird, they would certainly think she was after hearing that conversation. Besides, she didn't want anything to get back to Tom, which she was sure it would.

Working at the same place meant most all of them knew what had happened between the two of them, and that also meant not everyone was too happy with her. In fact, some that were close with Tom or just wanted him to notice them (that would come from a few of the ladies they worked with) didn't like her anymore. It didn't matter that _Tom_ still did; in their opinion she was still the wicked _bitch,_ and they wouldn't hesitate to spread any dirt they could find on her back to Tom or anyone else. It was petty, but that was how they were. Of course, not every one was like that. However, it didn't matter, if they heard what she was about to tell her old professor, they were sure to talk to _someone_, and then that would travel and everyone would know. Also, it would reach Tom, and she really didn't want to have to deal with him because, she knew, he would come to her and demand an explanation, while exclaiming his perplexity for her believing such a ludicrous story.

So that was why she pulled into Haven Park, killed the ignition, but didn't get out. She wasn't going to conduct her business outside; it was cold again, and she wasn't going to freeze her ass off while getting input from the Professor. Instead, she dug her cell phone out of her bag along with her little planner book she had his number scribbled in, and started to dial, going through the motions until, finally, she reached the person she wanted.

"Hello, Professor Brinkley speaking," he said in that friendly, distinct voice of his that always reminded her of the Sultan from Aladdin.

"Professor Brinkley, this is Megan Stratford," she said, and she knew he would remember who she was. It hadn't been that long since she had last spoken to him.

"Megan," he said jovially, "what a pleasant surprise!"

She smiled slightly, but getting back into business, said, "It's good to talk to you again too, Professor. I'm calling because… well, I need you help."

She could practically see him raise his bushy white eyebrows, frowning in curiosity. "Well, of course, of course… What can I do for you?"

"I know this is going to sound crazy," Megan began, and then proceeded to tell him exactly what she had called him for, leaving out absolutely nothing. She was sure that by the time she finished, he was going to tell her how utterly crazy that was, and how much of a gullible idiot she was for believing it in the first place. At least then, though, she would… she didn't know… have something… But what if the Professor really did think she was a nutter, and Lancelot was a fake, what would she do then? Would she completely abandon him and perhaps call professional help like Felicia had suggested, and maybe even the Professor? Would she do that just because the Professor, whom she highly respected, didn't believe what Lancelot said was the truth?

The answer, she knew, was no. She believed him, and somewhere deep inside of her, felt like he was telling the absolute truth. And, if the Professor wouldn't help and Felicia was keeping her distance and protecting Aiden and her unborn twins, then she would figure it all out by herself—her and Lancelot. Maybe they wouldn't get anywhere, and maybe they would, but she wasn't going to just leave him despite what anyone else thought. Lancelot needed her, needed her help, and she was going to give it to him. And if they couldn't figure any of it out, how Lancelot come to be in the twenty-first century or how to get him back to his time, then she would just help him live in her century and in her modern world. She would help him get a job, get a life, introduce him to people, and eventually help find him a place because he couldn't just live with her forever. That would just cause… complications.

And then, Professor Brinkley uttered two words, saying amazedly, "Oh… my…"

Megan bit her lip, and then rushed to explain. "Professor, I know it sounds completely ludicrous, but I honestly believe that he is telling the truth. And… and… and…" She sighed in defeat. "You think I'm just as crazy, don't you?"

"Oh, no, child," Professor Brinkley breathed out. "Quite the opposite. This is… Well, it definitely isn't an everyday occurrence, now is it?" he asked in humor, chuckling slightly.

Megan was shocked. Her eyes were wide, and she swallowed. "So, you… you believe me? You believe Lancelot?" She just couldn't believe it. Professor Brinkley, an intelligent man grounded by facts, albeit a lot kooky, believed her! It was just… shocking, because if she were truthful, she would admit that when she had decided to call him, she had expected him to think it was all hogwash. And now…

"Believe him, quite right," he told her, and then added, gently, but in the wise old man/teacher way he always had, "And you should, too. Never doubt anything he tells you, Megan, always believe. Because if he is here, then it is for a reason. Everything done in the galaxy has a reason, whether big or small, or what we humans call "normal" or a supernatural phenomenon. Believe him, Megan, and don't push him away."

Megan bit her lip, digesting what he had just told her. Believe what Lancelot told her, and never push him away—she hadn't pushed him away, and she didn't plan on doing it anytime soon, especially after this little talk with the Professor. Maybe after this, she could convince Felicia to believe him as well, or maybe Professor Brinkley could talk to her, and help convince him. But no, she would just think they were both loony then; Fel would have to learn to believe and accept Lancelot on her own. It wasn't something Megan could help her with…

However, she was curious as to _why_ the Professor just believed Lancelot and didn't think her crazy for believing him either. She wondered about what he had said: _if he is here, then it is for a reason._ She had never doubted the man's intelligence, and she didn't now, however she wondered how he could know that. Was it just a natural belief or observation of his, of all his years living in this world? She shook her head. Did she honestly care; she had someone that believed her and Lancelot, she didn't need to question that. However, still, she wondered…

"I would like to ask something, if you wouldn't mind," Professor Brinkley said, interrupting Megan's thoughts.

She blinked out of her reverie, and said, "Of course."

"I would like to… come, and see… Look at his belongings he brought with him. As a history fanatic, this is something—"

"Too great to pass up," Megan finished for him, smiling slightly, fondly. "Of course, Professor."

She heard the excitement in his voice, like a little kid at Christmas time, as he exclaimed, "Excellent, just excellent! How about… Oh, this weekend? Is that good?"

Megan thought briefly, decided she didn't have any other obligations or anything pressing, and agreed. After a few more amazed comments, they gave their partings and hung up, Megan with a lighter heart and not as much doubt, and the Professor, she knew, with a spring in his step as he bubbled with excitement. She sat there in the front seat, looking at the phone, and smiled, glad that someone other than herself finally believed Lancelot. It was refreshing in so many ways, and helped her not feel like she may be making a mistake. But now… now, she had no doubts, and she couldn't wait to inform Lancelot about any of it. In fact, she wanted to rush home right then, and tell him the good news.

And then, her mood deflated, and she frowned, brow furrowing. She couldn't do that, though. She still had school, and an apology she had to give. It was the apology that had her frowning.

Tom.

She still had to apologize to him for yesterday, and try to make things right. Usually, he didn't stay mad at her for long; however, given that yesterday was the first time it had been over another man, especially one staying at her house, she didn't quite know _how_ long Tom was prepared to stay angry. He had always been protective over her, and add that with a quick, hot temper, and a streak of jealousy—it just didn't add up well. However, she loved Tom, and was going to do what she had to do to make things right between them. She had said it before, and she would say it again: Tom's friendship wasn't one she was willing to lose, especially over something as frivolous as yesterday.

She sighed, turned the Jeep on, and pulled out of Haven Park, heading back to the High School/Middle School—yeah, the town was just that small, most of the residents being retired citizens. The only reason they didn't combine the elementary school with it was because they didn't want to have smaller kids around the older and hormonal ones—she just thought they didn't want to corrupt the younger kids. She reached the school in no time, and just sat there for a minute after she had parked, thinking. She knew she couldn't explain the truth about Lancelot, so she would just have to make up something. What was it she told Tom yesterday? He was an old friend that was staying with her for a while? Yes, that was right. However, would Tom buy that? She had always been very strong when it came to her morals and values and personal rules, and one of them had been not living with men that weren't her father or family until marriage, regardless of their status. Tom knew this, probably one reason he had gotten so infuriated yesterday, but would he believe her? She didn't know, but she was going to have to make her story good—really good.

She sighed, grabbed her bag, and opened the door, getting out. Before she started walking to the building, she stopped, turning to the window and staring at her reflection to make sure her appearance was okay. Her hair was still pulled back in a tight, severe ponytail and looked fine, and the light application of makeup was still looking good and fresh. She took a deep breath, and started for the building, all the while trying to concoct a story that would sound plausible enough that Tom would believe it. They may not have been a couple anymore, but they were still close friends, and Tom still knew her better than a lot of people. Why she was trying so hard to get Tom to believe her wasn't quite a mystery to her, but she knew she shouldn't feel like she had to make Tom believe her. Everything that wasn't friendship was over between them, was done so because of her, so… That was exactly why, because she didn't want to lose his friendship.

She shook her head slightly, entered the school, and veered toward the stairwell entrance, going upstairs where his science lab and classroom were located. At that current moment, he would also be in his planning period, though, unlike hers, his lasted an hour; he only taught high school, whereas she split her time up with the high school and middle school. It could be confusing and frustrating at times, but it was the only system the school could cook up, and she really didn't mind. Still, though, she wasn't worried about interrupting a class; if that were the case, she would just wait until the end of school or at lunch. The only thing she was worried about was if someone else was "visiting" him. She shook her head, and reached his room.

She stopped before knocking on the door, taking a deep, calming breath. She touched her hair lightly, making sure it was still in place, and smoothed her blouse and full-length purple stretch skirt, as well as making sure her black tights were straight before taking another deep breath, and rapping quickly on the door. She heard his deep voice, granting her entrance, and opened the door, sticking her head in and saying:

"Hey."

He looked at her, no expression, and then back down at the papers he was looking over, no doubt grading. She came through the door all the way, shutting it, and leaning against it, hands behind her. A feeling of awkwardness settled over her, and she bit her lip. He was still angry with her.

She took a deep breath, and asked, "How are you?"

Tom didn't look up at her, only marked something on the paper with his red pen, and answered, "Fine."

This wasn't going to be easy, especially when he was still angry. Though, she supposed if her face was livid and discolored from bruises and she had a nasty cut above her eye, as well as on her lip, then she'd be pretty pissed off, too. At least his nose wasn't broken, though; she had thought for sure that it would be… Still, she felt responsible for what had happened, especially since it had happened at _her_ house. It didn't help that he had been coming to see her, or that afterwards they had gotten into a fight. If she really thought about it, and was going to make a choice about who had been in the wrong, she'd probably have to say Lancelot. However, she wasn't going to pinpoint the blame on anyone, and was just as content with claiming some of it herself.

"Tom," she began, and still, he didn't look her. She bit her lip, sighed, and pushed away from the door, walking toward him. Still, he didn't say anything or look at her, remained dutifully fixated on the papers he was grading. "Tom," she tried again, trying to get him to open up. "How's your—"

"What do you want, Megan?" he asked, still grading papers.

She swallowed, looking down and picking at her thumb. She looked back up at him, and said, "I wanted to apologize."

"Don't worry about it. It's fine."

Except it wasn't, and she knew it. Tom's pride had been hurt, as well as something else on a more emotional, personal level. It was a slap in the face to him to find a man staying with her after everything they'd been through, after everything he was still doing to try and get her back. And not to mention jealousy… Mustn't forget jealousy, and just anger for having another egotistical male demand answers from him.

Men. Honestly.

"No, it's not, Tom, and you know it," she told him firmly. "Can we please just talk about it?"

Finally, Tom looked up at her, and let his pen drop to his desk. He raised an eyebrow, and said, "Talk about what, Megan? We talked enough yesterday."

Megan glared just a tad, and countered, "No, we argued, and now I've come to apologize for what I said, but you're being an ass about it." Something about Tom always made her lose her cool quicker than usual—she wasn't sure if it was good or bad, but it had caused a lot of heat between them in the past, both good and bad.

Tom glared back at her, green eyes blazing. "So sorry if I'm still a little pissed about some jerkoff thinking I was hurting you, and then attacking me, especially when he starts running the damn show like he's the one who owns the damn place."

So, it wasn't just that he had gotten his ass kicked that Tom was angry. It was also because he had been accused of wanting to hurt her. If she thought about it, it was made sense.

She made a noise in her throat. "Fine, be pissed, but we could at _least_ try to resolve what happened yesterday."

Tom sighed, got up out of his chair, and walked away, rifling through papers on a desk. "Fine, it's resolved. You're sorry, I'm sorry; we're both sorry. Now, if you'd excuse me, I have papers to grade."

She was outright glaring, annoyance growing. "No, it's not resolved either, Thomas Hanover. If it was, you wouldn't be acting like an ass."

"And I suppose you're acting like an angel?"

"Stop being a child," snapped Megan. She took a deep breath, said, "Look, Tom, I didn't come here to argue. Can we please just talk? I don't want things to be bad between us because of some stupid argument yesterday."

Tom looked at her, saw something in her expression, and sighed, running a hand over his chin. "Fine, Megan. Let's talk." And he walked toward her, sitting on the top of a student's desk directly in front of her.

Megan crossed her arms over her chest, and said, "Thank you." Tom didn't say anything. "Now, about yesterday…" Tom laced his fingers, and let her lead the way in their conversation that was very likely to turn into a heated argument. It wasn't unusual. "Lancelot's just a family friend that needs help and doesn't have anywhere else to go or stay. Otherwise, he wouldn't be staying with me." And why did she feel like she was explaining her actions to him?

_Maybe because you are, dumbass. _

"What kind of trouble?" Tom asked.

Her mouth twisted in a grimace. "I can't tell you. It's his to tell." Not exactly a lie.

Tom frowned. "It's not going to get you into trouble or worse, right?"

So far, so good. He wasn't shouting about how it was all a bunch of bull crap. Maybe he would believe it now that adrenaline wasn't high, as well as tempers, and he wasn't near Lancelot. Maybe… hopefully… How to answer his question, though? Was it going to get her into trouble? She didn't think so, at least she hoped not… Besides, how would it…?

"No, he's just… a lot's going on right now, and… personal stuff…" No kidding it was personal.

Tom continued to frown, and finally nodded. "Okay, but if he does anything—"

Megan's lips twitched, wanting to smile as she interrupted gently with, "I know. Thanks."

Tom nodded, and then raised an eyebrow. "So, I got from Felicia that she doesn't really like him." Oh… Now that could definitely be a factor in his hostility. If Felicia didn't like someone, then why should Tom like the person around Megan? She cursed her sister then; she would definitely have to have a talk with her. She knew she had had it hard, but damn it. A _little_ kindness toward Lancelot wouldn't kill her.

Instead, she replied with a light, "Ahh, no, not really. Old prank, bad grudge. You know how that goes."

Tom nodded, and silence stretched between them. Megan balanced on the heel of her heeled loafers, before setting back down. She bit her lip, looked toward the window, and then, unable to take the silence, said, "Sorry about," and she gestured toward his face.

Tom shrugged. "Can't say I wasn't angry, but it's not your fault, so don't apologize. Though, you weren't my favorite person when I came to work and Dave caught sight of me."

Megan snorted. Dave, one those in the "Megan's a bitch" hate club, was one of the guys that liked booze, sports, bars, and women with nice "assets"—never mind he was married or how old they were. It had never stopped him before, why should it stop him now? Safe to say, though, he wasn't a favorite of Megan's, but was a friend of Tom's. If he knew what had happened, no doubt he was all ready spreading dirt about her, _and_ had been relentless when he had seen Tom. She wondered about what other people had said, and the students… She winced.

"Bad, huh?"

"Yeah," Tom answered. "I didn't tell him what happened, though, so you don't have to worry about him coming and giving you a hard time."

She gave Tom a grateful look. "I imagine the students gave you a hard time, too?"

Tom raised an eyebrow. "They're nosy teenagers that enjoy prying and trying to make their teachers squirm, what do you think?"

"Point taken." And silence. There wasn't anger, but things definitely weren't back to normal. There was still an awkwardness there that shouldn't be, and Megan wasn't sure how to fix it. Though she wasn't looking at Tom, she could feel him staring at her as he sat, perched on the desk, hands laced. "Look, Tom, about what I said yesterday… about you looking for a reason to come over… I didn't mean it. You don't have to have a reason… Just… tempers and …"

Tom stared at her, and reached out, grasping her hand and giving it a light, meaningful squeeze. She stared at it, and then looked at his face, a weird feeling developing in her stomach. "I know." And he still had a hold of her hand as he answered, staring at her meaningfully.

His thumb had started to trace patterns over her skin, and she only stared at him, wondering what was happening. She let him continue his tracing, even using her own thumb to run over his. She swallowed, looking into Tom's intense eyes, an age-old feeling coiling in her stomach. He got up off the desk, and came toward her, stopping when there was only a small space between them. She looked up at him, wondering… And knowing she should stop whatever was about to happen before it did. It would only complicate matters, and…

"Tom," she said, almost shaky, almost breathy.

He touched her cheek gently, running his other up her arm. "I've missed you, you know," he told her quietly.

She swallowed hard, looking up at him. "Tom…"

What could she say? They'd done this same thing numerous times, went through this numerous times, and… Then, he was drawing her body against his, holding her close, kissing her and utterly ravishing her mouth with need. Her eyes closed, and a moan escaped her involuntarily. God, could this man kiss… Her arms wrapped around his neck, and his run up and down her back, one dipping further down the curve of her ass tantalizingly before trailing back up. Pressed tightly between the desk and him, Megan could feel just how much Tom had missed her and just how much he was happy to "see" her again, and she had to admit it was pretty big. And she couldn't say she minded, or that she wasn't enjoying it, or that warmth was pooling in her center without lying a little.

In fact, the only thing she minded was that they were at school on the job… She pulled back, face flushed, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Tom's eyes were glazed, and he went to kiss her again, but she stopped him, putting her hand against her chest and chuckling, almost nervously.

"School… students," she croaked out. Tom swallowed, but her meaning got through to him. He nodded, unable to resist dipping down and giving her a searing kiss that left her on her tiptoes as they pulled apart, moving farther away from each other so as not to be tempted to go back to each other. "I… I should go," Megan said, swallowing and looking at Tom with the same heated look that was a bit dazed. She took a few steps sideways, to the door, touching her mouth with the side of her hand, heart racing.

"Yeah," he agreed.

She nodded, still walking half backwards, half sideways as she looked at him. She made it to the door, head clearing, and remembered something. She asked, "What did you need when you called Thursday?"

Tom blinked, swallowed. "Town fair…" and he trailed off, but she knew he had been wondering if she would go with him, bring Fel and Aiden, too.

"Maybe," she said.

She turned to leave, and he called out, "Megan!" She looked back at him, nerves still hot and on end. "There's a new restaurant they opened a week or so ago, Italian." She knew; it was the biggest and ritziest place Halls had. "Let me take you there, as an apology for yesterday." And he saw her uneasy look, and added, "_With _Felicia and Aiden, even your friend… just as an apology. Please?"

She bit her lip. "I don't know, Tom…" For many reasons, and only a couple had to do with Lancelot. Especially after what had just happened…

"Just to make up yesterday to you, and make things… mutual with your friend." Could she really crush him? She could, for both of their sakes in the very end, but…

"Okay…" she consented.

Tom smiled brightly, sincerely, and she smiled back, wondering if she was doing the right thing. "Friday night, good?" She nodded, not able to think of prior engagements. He smiled, she smiled, and then she left, late for her next class by a few minutes, all the while still wondering if she was doing the right thing. She hoped so.

Megan sighed—men.

* * *

_A/N—So thing aren't as strictly platonic between the ex-lovebirds after all… Hmm… Anyways, anyone readying, feedback appreciated. Thanks for the reviews. Forgive the typos._

_SatiricalPhilosophy_


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